


All I dream of lately is how to get you underneath me

by oftirnanog



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, New York City, Shotgunning, emotionally stunted boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is a graphic/web designer running an independent blog in L.A. Stiles is a headhunter who recruits him for a job at GQ magazine in New York. Both of them have disastrous love lives and make a friends with benefits agreement. Of course, as these things always go, they develop feelings for each other. Cue all the internal angsty struggles of what both presume to be unrequited love. These boys are reaching new levels of oblivious. </p><p>Shamelessly ripped off of that movie Friends with Benefits starring Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake. We'll call it a Sciles AU, but let's be honest, it could just as easily be O'Brosey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this is going to be. It's closing in on 20k right now and I foresee at least another 7-10k. I've been working on it for too long because writing long fic while in grad school apparently doesn't work that well. Who knew. I make no promises for update frequency, but I have every intention of finishing it. 
> 
> ETA: This is complete! Hope you all enjoy!

Scott gets on the plane at seven in the morning and even though he didn’t have to be awake until five, he’s been up since four thinking about all the employees that he might be leaving behind just by getting on said plane. It’s kind of a lot to deal with, but at least it’s taking his mind off the early hour. And well, it’s taking his mind off his recent break-up with Jason if he’s being perfectly honest with himself.

So it’s fine. It’s great. He is absolutely not selling out, nor is he running away. He hasn’t even accepted this job yet—it’s just an interview—so he’s probably freaking out over nothing. 

Not that New York wouldn’t be great. Because it would. And it’s GQ magazine. That’s kind of a big deal. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself he’d admit that he’s more worried about not being ready for this job, that he’s somehow managed to make himself look really good on paper and fooled all these people into thinking he’s qualified for such responsibility. If he were being perfectly honest with himself he’d admit that he really wants this job.

But ‘perfectly honest with himself’ is not really Scott’s specialty, so he settles for assuring himself that nothing’s set in stone and staring out the window as they land. At one point he finds himself making some asinine comment about the Statue of Liberty—how it was a gift from France and something about the irony of the whole ‘freedom fries’ fiasco—to the flight attendant, and she ends up looking kind of offended, which was not Scott’s intention. He’s probably just nervous. He should just not talk to people.

Scott is waiting at the luggage carousel, glancing around to see if there’s any hint of who might be picking him up—something Stilinksi. He’s not actually sure on the pronunciation of this guy’s first name and he has no idea what he looks like. Then Scott spots his suitcase just as a piece of paper bearing his name lands directly on top of it. 

He reaches forward to grab it and hears, “Oops, sorry,” behind him. “Seriously, ma’am, so sorry.” And then a slim man with slightly mussed hair and pale skin dotted with moles is pushing up next to him reaching for the paper.

“Uh, that’s me,” Scott says, grabbing onto the handle.

“The bag?” the guy asks. “Sorry, dude. Here, let me grab it for you. I just need the sign.”

“That’s actually me, too,” Scott says, grinning, because he’s pretty sure this is the Stilinski guy.

“Oh. You’re Scott McCall,” he grins, heaving the suitcase off the carousel and then sticking out his hand. “Call me Stiles. No, I got that,” he says when Scott reaches for his suitcase. “I’m here to make sure New York leaves a good impression, after all.”

“Okay,” Scott says, biting down on smiling too widely. Despite the haphazard way he arrived at the carousel, Stiles manoeuvres the suitcase and weaves through the crowd with surprising ease. Scott figures it must come with living in New York.

“So how was the flight?” Stiles asks.

“Boring, but that’s probably for the best. An exciting flight would probably mean some kind of disaster,” Scott says, immediately aware that that might be a strange comment. 

Yeah. He’s definitely nervous. It doesn’t help that Stiles is kind of attractive.

Stiles tilts his head at Scott and gives him an amused look (okay, maybe more than ‘kind of’ attractive), and they make their way outside where Stiles secures them a cab.

“Are you getting in or are you just going to stand there?” Stiles asks when Scott doesn’t move.

“Yes,” Scott replies, moving forward and then nearly braining himself on the roof climbing in. He thinks Stiles might have missed that, though, since he was moving around to the other side of the car. Jesus. At this rate Stiles is going to send him home without even allowing him the interview. 

He settles into the car and wills himself to pull it together already.

Stiles gives the driver an address and then settles back and turns to Scott.

“So is this your first trip to New York?” he asks.

“It is!” Scott says, probably more enthusiastically than the situation merits. “I’ve mostly stuck to California to be honest. I’m kind of a homebody like that. And I love L.A.”

“Well, I’m sure L.A. is great and all, but New York is New York.” He states it like a fact that can’t be argued. “And this job is perfect for you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Scott says, and he’s not sure why he’s saying it at all because he’s supposed to be doing the opposite right now, isn’t he?

Of course, Stiles sought him out, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, brow raised in skepticism. “You do want this job, don’t you?”

Scott shrugs. “I don’t know, really. I mean it sounds great. But New York is a big change, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for fucking up something this big.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Stiles asks. “Fucking up and moving to New York?”

Scott gives him a one-shoulder shrug this time, just a little apologetic.

“Okay, first of all. You’re perfect for this job. I spent a lot of time looking into your work and you’re exactly what GQ needs right now. You’ve got a fresh look, you understand the whole internet social networking thing, and they desperately need new blood. You are the newest, freshest blood. Like a vampire’s wet dream.”

Scott frowns at that and maybe starts to feel less self-conscious about his own strange comments.

“Second of all,” Stiles continues. “Since apparently New York being New York is not enough of a selling point for you, tonight I’ll meet you at your hotel and I will sell you on New York. Or I mean, New York will sell you on New York, but I’ll be here to help it along and make sure you see the best parts. How’s that sound?”

“Uh, great, I guess,” Scott replies.

“No. You don’t guess. You know. It sounds great,” Stiles insists.

“I’m starting to see why you’re good at you’re job,” Scott says ruefully.

“Because I’m so charming?” he grins too wide, all shit-eating cocky bravado.

Scott can’t help laughing. “Sure.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “We’re here.”

Scott blinks and realizes they’ve stopped. He glances out the window with mild trepidation. The buildings here are massive. The whole city kind of looks too big for itself, like it’s top heavy and about to implode from all that excess weight. On the other hand, Scott’s probably just anxious about the interview and the fact that if he gets this job, he’s still not even sure he wants it.

“Just breathe,” Stiles says, this time offering a genuine comforting smile. “You’re going to be great.”

“Thanks,” Scott says, and takes a deep breath, climbing out of the cab.

“Make me look good!” Stiles calls to him.

“I’ll do my best!” Scott shouts back.

*

Stiles shows up at Scott’s hotel at 8:30 and finds him waiting in the lobby when he gets there. He’s dressed in fitted jeans and a black polo shirt that is doing him all kinds of justice. 

Stiles throws his arms out in front of him and says, “I hear everything went perfectly.”

Scott ducks his head and grins. “What can I say, I can be charming when I want to be.”

“I bet you can,” Stiles says. “So where’s your head at now that the offer’s officially on the table?”

Scott sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. Stiles does his best not to stare.

“You’re still not convinced,” Stiles concludes. Scott looks sheepish for a moment. “No that’s perfect,” Stiles assures him. “What would be the point of this night on the town if you’d already made up your mind?”

“Where are we headed?” Scott asks.

“Follow me,” Stiles says, and glances both ways before jogging across the street.

He looks back when he realizes Scott’s not with him.

“What are you doing?” he calls to Scott, who’s standing somewhat helplessly on the other side of the street.

“I’m going to get killed!” Scott replies.

“No you’re not!” Stiles looks both ways, waiting for a gap in traffic, and then shouts, “Okay, now!”

Scott dashes across the street and actually braces one arm over his head. 

“Jesus,” Scott breathes. “Do you always cross the street like that?”

Stiles shakes his head, not to say no, but in disbelief. “People from L.A. are weird. I mean it was kind of cute, but seriously dude. It’s jaywalking. It’s not even shoplifting. Loosen the reins a little.”

“You know they give tickets for jaywalking,” Scott insists.

“Seriously. You’re adorable. But this is New York. I have literally never met a single person who’s gotten a ticket for jaywalking here.” Stiles rubs his hands together. “Now. Let’s get our drink on. And then I have somewhere really special to show you before the grand finale.”

“There’s a grand finale?”

“This is New York. Of course there’s a grand finale.”

“Okay,” Scott says, once they’re seated at the bar with a drink in hand. “If you’re so intent on selling me on this place, what’s your favourite thing about New York?”

“We’re not quite there yet,” Stiles says. “But I will tell you my second, third, fourth, and fifth favourite things about New York once you tell me that’s the best cocktail you’ve ever had.”

Stiles watches in amusement as Scott’s face changes, going from amused to utterly skeptical.

“You know we do have cocktails in L.A.,” Scott says, but he takes a sip anyway, and Stiles can’t help grinning in satisfaction at the surprised little jump of his eyebrows when he tastes it.

“I told you.” 

“Okay, it’s a good cocktail.”

“So, this is one of my favourite things about New York,” Stiles says. “There’s always a good bar open. There’s usually someone to go with. And if there isn’t, the atmosphere is good enough that you can come by yourself and feel perfectly at home. New York might be big and intimidating, but it’s also going to welcome you with open arms. Half the people in New York aren’t from New York. It’s a city of misfits and dreamers and hardened cynics and just about anybody can carve for themselves their own littler corner in the city. It’s a city of outsiders in some form or another, which makes everybody an insider, so you don’t have to worry that you don’t belong.”

“Was that one thing, or like five?” Scott asks, but he’s smiling, and Stiles can tell he’s winning him over.

He’s finding himself a little more invested in this than he usually is. It’s less about work now and a little more about wanting Scott to stay. Maybe that’s unprofessional, but Stiles likes Scott. He can see that they could be good friends, given the chance, and Stiles doesn’t want to let him walk away.

“I think it might have been two things,” Stiles replies. “I promised you two more, didn’t I?”

“I think you did,” Scott grins and takes a sip of his drink.

“Okay. There’s also the food. You can literally have any food you want here. If you crave it, guaranteed, somewhere in the city will be a place that has it. And often you’ll be able to get it at any time, night or day. They don’t call it the city that never sleeps for nothing.”

“That’s a pretty convincing argument, I’ll give you that,” Scott says. “But don’t you ever get overwhelmed by all the ‘bright lights, big city’?”

“Ah,” Stiles says, and downs the remains of his cocktail. “I think that brings us the next item on my list of favourite things about New York. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He and Scott walk several blocks, with Stiles occasionally pointing to some of his favourite restaurants and shops, until they get to the side street Stiles’ is looking for.

“This way,” Stiles says, and dips down the alley. He looks both ways and then ducks under the partially open garage door.

“What are you doing?” Scott asks, but he follows him, so that has to count for something. “Is this legal?”

“Of course not,” Stiles says. “What’s the worst they’re going to do? Kick us out?”

“Do you enjoy breaking the law?” Scott asks, and Stiles just grins at him, assuming that will be answer enough. “I feel like you’re going to kidnap me and sell my organs on the black market. Am I going to wake up in a bath tub full of ice?”

Stiles scrunches his face in disbelief. “Is that a thing you think actually happens here?”

“Well, I don’t know! I’ve never been to New York! How am I supposed to know which urban legends to believe?”

“Not that one,” Stiles says, heading up the last flight of stairs and out onto the roof of the building.

Stiles decides not to ruin the view with an introduction or another elevator pitch, so he just wanders over to the edge and leans against the cement wall, looking down at the city and the blinking taillights of the cars weaving between buildings. It’s always a little surreal up here because of the quiet. All that activity below, but without the sirens, without the honking horns or overlapping voices.

“Whoa,” Scott says, settling beside him to take in the view for himself.

“This,” Stiles says, “While not my favourite thing about New York, is definitely my favourite place in New York.”

“It’s so quiet,” Scott says, lowering his voice accordingly.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “It’s perfect when you need to get away from it all. Or look at the sky without all the buildings in your line of sight.”

“Plus,” he adds, dropping to ground and lying on his back. “No cell reception.”

Scott lies down beside him and pulls out his phone to verify. “Huh.” He pockets his phone and then tilts his head to look at Stiles, a movement Stiles tracks from the corner of his eye, not quite willing to tear his gaze away from the stars. It’s a clear night—clearer than most—and he can almost make out some constellations.

“You take all your reluctant candidates up here?” Scott asks.

Stiles frowns. “No,” he says. “I’ve never taken anyone up here before,” he says, and tries not to think too hard about what it means that he’s taken Scott here. He barely knows the guy for fuck’s sake.

“Oh,” Scott says. He pauses for a moment, trains his eyes back on the night sky. “Thanks, then. It’s gorgeous.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Stiles thinks it should be weird. He just admitted to taking Scott to what amounts to his secret hideaway in the city in an attempt to get him to stay, and really, that should make things weird, or at least a bit awkward. But the silence is oddly comfortable, if silence can be both odd and comfortable at the same time. Apparently it can, because it is. Maybe they’re inventing a new kind of silence. 

And that last thought is about as much as Stiles can handle from his brain at the moment, so he stands abruptly, causing Scott to flinch in surprise. 

“Okay, up we get,” he says, offering his hand to pull Scott to his feet. “We’ve got places to go, people to see, a night to enjoy.”

Scott looks a little confused, but Stiles can’t really blame him, and he’s still smiling, so Stiles takes that as a good sign.

It doesn’t take them long to get to Times Square, and, yes, Stiles will admit that Times Square is not really New York. It’s the tourist version of New York without a doubt. All bright lights and giant billboards and people absolutely everywhere. It’s loud and chaotic and if Stiles is being honest, he tries to avoid Times Square most of the time. He can tell from the expression on Scott’s face that he’s thinking something similar.

But on the other hand, one can’t go to New York without seeing Times Square. 

“And then there’s the people,” Stiles says, cutting off whatever inevitably incredulous comment was about to come out of Scott’s mouth. “New Yorkers tend to get a bad reputation, but I don’t think that’s fair. Maybe we’re a little impatient sometimes, but we’re probably on our way to work or a meeting or an appointment that we’re late for when that happens. This is a busy place and we’ve got places to go, but there’s also people playing music at the subway stations. And impromptu performances on the trains or in the streets that draw in a crowd of people who get to share in a moment of perfect strangers sharing something kind of spectacular.” 

Stiles pauses for a moment when music starts. “Like this,” he says, and steps back when people start joining in a choreographed dance.

Scott’s smile of surprised delight is surely something to behold, and Stiles presses his lips together in an attempt to hide how pleased he is with that reaction. Not that Scott would have noticed. He’s too taken with the flash mob unfolding around them.

“So flash mobs are your favourite thing about New York?” Scott asks.

“Smart ass,” Stiles says. “My favourite thing about New York is it makes you believe in something. Even the cynics. Or they would’ve left by now.”

Scott shakes his head and rotates slowly in a full 360 to take it all in. When he’s facing Stiles again sighs and says, “All right.”

Something joyful bursts in Stiles’ chest. “Yes! You’ll take it?”

“I’ll take it!” Scott shouts. 

“You won’t regret it,” Stiles assures him, and throws an arm across Scott’s back, gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“If I do, I’m blaming you,” Scott says, and throws Stiles a dimpled smile.

Stiles just laughs and gives his shoulder another squeeze.

*

Scott is staring at a door. Scott is staring a door he just removed from its hinges because he couldn’t control himself with the ‘my door is always open’ bit. He is staring at a door because of a stupid book on managing that he took to heart for reasons beyond his current understanding. 

God they’re going to fire him.

He shakes his head and turns back to his computer and tries not to think too hard about how most of his employees probably won’t be able to take him seriously. 

He’s saved from this train of thought when Stiles shows up at his door.

“Redecorating already?” Stiles asks, eyeing the dismantled door.

“Don’t ask,” Scott says ruefully.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I’ve got something for you.” He takes the empty seat on the other side of Scott’s desk and slides a contract across it. “Time to make it all official.”

Scott takes a deep breath and flips through it, scanning over all the legal babble, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for.

“You’re not still worried about this, are you?” Stiles asks.

“It’s a big commitment,” Scott insists.

“It’s a year,” Stiles says.

“That’s a big commitment!” Scott says, looking up at Stiles. He can feel his eyes going wide.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Okay. Relax. Technically you don’t even have to stay for the whole year, though that does hurt my paycheck.”

“Well then what’s the point of the contract?” Scott asks.

“Confidentiality and stuff,” Stiles says with a wave of his hand. “If you just sign the damn thing I’ll buy you lunch today.”

Scott gives Stiles a cheeky grin. “Are you hitting on me?” He’s not even sure Stiles is into guys, but he doesn’t think he’ll be annoyed by the teasing either way.

Stiles licks his lips and gives him an obligatory once over. “You’re not really my type,” Stiles concludes. 

Scott rolls his eyes and clicks his pen open so he can scrawl his name on the bottom line.

“Besides,” Stiles continues. “I’m your only New York friend right now. Do you really want to ruin that with sex?”

Scott makes a show like he’s thinking about it, gives Stiles a considering look through narrowed eyes, and then grins. “I don’t really think you’re my type either.”

Stiles smiles back and says, “There you go. Disaster averted. Now give me that contract and lets get some grub.”

They end up at a small sandwich shop around the corner where they grab a window seat with the sun shining in and people walking by on the street outside. Scott has to admit, he’s starting to see New York’s appeal.

“You love it here already,” Stiles says before taking a massive bite of his sandwich.

“Attractive,” Scott says as Stiles pushes stray vegetables into his mouth.

Stiles mumbles something that might be ‘I am so attractive’, but might also be ‘I have a double chin’, it’s hard to tell with his mouth that full of food.

Scott laughs and then groans when his phone rings and Jason’s photo shows up on his caller ID. 

Stiles swallows and asks, “Worried family?”

“My ex,” he says, staring at the phone and debating over whether or not he should answer it.

“Dumped you when you took the job?” Stiles asks.

“No he dumped me before I even had the interview. Right before we were going to see some romcom or other. I can’t even remember what it was now,” Scott says. 

His phone is still ringing.

“Here, gimme that,” Stiles says and grabs the phone from Scott. “Scott McCall’s phone. He’s busy being fabulous in New York, can I—hello?” Stiles pulls the phone away for a moment. “Hello? I think he hung up. He sounded kinda angry.”

Scott lets out a nervous laugh. It’s probably for the best really. He wouldn’t have had the nerve to tell Jason to leave him alone, but that might have just had the same effect.

“Are all your exes that delightful?” Stiles asks.

“No, some of them are totally normal,” Scott insists. “Like Allison. Allison is awesome. We’re still really good friends actually.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “My ex-girlfriends always tend to be crazier than my ex-boyfriends.”

“I think that might say more about your taste in women than it does about women in general,” Scott says.

“That’s probably true.” Stiles takes a bite of his sandwich and continues to talk through it, “All my exes say the same thing anyway. I’m ‘emotionally unavailable’ or some shit.”

“Holy shit, dude, me too!”

“Yeah?”

“I think ‘emotionally stunted’ was actually the term Jason used.” Scott frowns a little because if he’s honest, he sometimes worries that Jason might be right.

“Here’s to the emotionally stunted, emotionally unavailable, and generally dysfunctional,” Stiles says, raising his can of Coke.

Scott snorts and raises his own can to knock against Stiles’. 

“I’m having a party at my place tonight,” Stiles says. “You should come. I think you and the rest of my friends will get along really well. You know, once they get over the fact that you’re from L.A.”

He actually winks after that. He fucking winks. And sure, Scott may have told Stiles that he wasn’t his type, but Scott honestly can’t imagine Stiles not being someone’s type. Because Stiles? Is really fucking attractive. All sharpish angles and long limbs and his fucking hands. Scott thinks this might be a problem. Especially because he genuinely likes Stiles. Would really like to be Stiles’ friend and keep it that way. No complications. No drama. 

So he tucks that thought away, rolls his eyes because that’s the response Stiles is expecting right now, and says, “I’ll be there. I’ll bring beer to bribe them.”

*

“Aw, bro, seriously, what?!” Stiles shouts, and tosses the controller away from himself like the six-year old he is. Because no one is better at N64’s GoldenEye 007 than Stiles. Except Scott, apparently. Who is beating his ass thoroughly at every old-school video game Stiles has. Even Mario Kart. Stiles hates everything.

“Haha!” Scott squeals. Yes. He actually squeals. And then stands up and does a stupid dance with his hips rotating in every direction.

“I fucking hate you,” Stiles says, which is a blatant lie and Scott knows it.

“Awww,” Scott says, and goes to the kitchen to grab a couple more beers. “You want to play Wii bowling so you can feel better about yourself again?”

Stiles grabs a nearby pillow and lobs it at Scott’s head as he makes his way back to the living room. “You suck at bowling. It wouldn’t even feel like a proper victory you’re so bad at it.”

“Sorry, dude,” Scott says, and hands Stiles a bottle of beer.

“No you’re not,” Stiles replies, but he takes a sip of beer anyway. Traitor beer. At least it tastes good.

Scott flops onto the couch and switches the TV over to cable to check the score of the baseball game. “The Mets are winning,” Scott pipes up, and Stiles rolls his eyes because that’s for his benefit. Scott doesn’t give a shit about the Mets. And that’s why Stiles can’t even stay fake-mad at Scott for any length of time.

He gets off the floor and sprawls out on the couch next to Scott, swinging his legs up so they drape across Scott’s lap.

“You still suck,” Stiles says.

Scott just grabs his ankle and smiles at him. “What do you want to watch?”

“I don’t care,” Stiles says, and he nestles a little lower into the couch. “You pick.”

The thing is, Stiles genuinely doesn’t care what they watch. They could watch infomercials all night and probably genuinely enjoy themselves because the truth of it is that he just likes being around Scott, can’t really figure out what he was doing with his time before Scott came along. It’s weird how quickly they melded into each other’s lives, with built-in comfort they didn’t even have to work for. 

Stiles tries not to think about it too hard, though. He doesn’t want things to get complicated.

Scott lands on something that Stiles doesn’t recognize, but which apparently stars a very young Michael Douglas.

“What the hell even is this?” Stiles asks, a little obnoxiously because he’s maybe still annoyed about the whole GoldenEye thing.

“Romancing the Stone,” Scott says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“You’ve never seen Romancing the Stone?” Scott asks. He almost looks offended.

“I’ve never heard of Romancing the Stone,” Stiles corrects.

Scott just shakes his head and tosses the remote down. “We’re watching it.”

Stiles frowns at him because he’s crazy, but Scott doesn’t see, just adjusts his position on the couch, being careful not to jostle Stiles too much. He keeps his hand on Stiles’ ankle.

By the time to movie is over, Scott and Stiles are even more entangled than they were when it started and Stiles is mostly in Scott’s lap. 

“So what’d you think?” Scott asks. His hand has moved up to Stiles’ knee now and his thumb is brushing back and forth.

“It wasn’t terrible,” Stiles concedes.

“Whatever, dude. That movie’s a classic.”

“A classic? Really?” Stiles gives him an incredulous look because while the movie has its merits as an action-adventure romcom, it’s still a romcom.

“I dunno, man. I used to watch it with my mom when I stayed home sick from school,” Scott says with a shrug.

And that’s…kind of endearing if Stiles is honest with himself. Which he’s not. Ever.

“It’s just…romance movies, you know? Shit like that never goes down in real life. People don’t work like that. Twenty bucks says they get bored with each other after like six months and he takes off on that boat and she takes off with some other dude.”

“That’s almost the entire premise of the sequel,” Scott tells him.

“They made a sequel?”

“Yeah, it’s not as good though.”

Stiles blinks at him. Sometimes he’s not sure Scott is real because, really? They weren’t even alive in the eighties and here’s this guy talking about the merits of cheesy eighties action-adventure romances.

“What?” Scott demands when Stiles continues to stare at him.

“Are you like, a secret wealth of cheesy romcom knowledge?”

“Maybe,” Scott says. “They’re fun sometimes!” He gestures helplessly at the screen. “You know? Sometimes it would be nice if your love life was a movie.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says. “I’d just be happy if I was getting laid, to be honest. Sometimes you just need sex.”

“I feel that, bro,” Scott agrees.

“Like why can’t two people just have sex? No feelings. No messy emotional entanglements. Just two people, getting each other off, and having fun.”

“Emotions always get in the way though.”

“I know, dude, but imagine if they didn’t,” Stiles says, and gives Scott a meaningful look.

“That would be pretty awesome.”

“So awesome.” 

They pause for a moment and then Stiles extracts himself from his position on the couch. “I gotta take a piss,” he tells Scott, who probably doesn’t need to know, but they’ve reached the point of their friendship where that kind of sharing has become commonplace.

Scott makes a small noise of acknowledgement, but looks lost in thought. Stiles doesn’t think anything of it.

Or at least he doesn’t think anything of it until he gets back from the bathroom and Scott says, “What if we did that?”

“What if we did what?” Stiles asks. He’s being deliberately obtuse. He’s pretty sure this is an extension of the sex-without-feelings conversation. But he also wouldn’t want to be wrong about that, so he’s going to stick with playing dumb.

“You know,” Scott says, obviously not quite wanting to bring himself to say it either. He makes a kind of waving hand gesture and then rolls his eyes when Stiles refuses to understand him. “The no-strings-attached sex thing.”

Stiles was kind of hoping it would take Scott longer to come right out and say it, thus buying himself time to come up with a response. Mostly because he can’t think of any good reason why they shouldn’t. They’re both adults, after all. They’d be agreeing to the terms ahead of time. And Scott is, objectively, very attractive.  
He wants to say all this. Instead, he says, “I thought we didn’t want to make things complicated.”

“No, but that’s why it could work, man,” Scott insists, sitting up straighter. “We both want to get laid. We’re both single. We agree not to bring any emotions or shit into it. Just two bros, helping each other out.”

“No homo?” Stiles says, just to be an ass, because that’s what Scott’s reasoning just sounded like.

“What?” Scott says. “What the fuck does ‘no homo’ even mean? We’d be two bisexuals having consensual, awesome sex.”

“How do you know it would be awesome?” Stiles asks.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Scott replies. “You’re hot. I’m pretty okay.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t find me attractive. Do you not find me attractive?”

“This is rapidly becoming one of the stupidest conversations I’ve ever had,” Stiles tells him. “You’re way more than ‘pretty okay’, dude.”

Scott, the asshole, beams at him. All dimples and teeth and crinkled eyes.

“You swear there’s no feelings?” Stiles asks, wanting to be sure. They really might be onto something here, but he wants to be sure they’re not going to fuck it up.

“No feelings,” Scott says, palms up. “At least not beyond totally platonic bro feelings.”

“Same, man,” Stiles says. “Okay. So, how do we do this? Should we swear on something? Shake on it?”

“Special handshake?” Scott suggests because, yes, they have their own handshake.

“Deal.” Stiles sticks out his fist for Scot to bump and they move through the series of not-really-all-that-complicated moves that make up their handshake.

Then there’s an awkward moment where they stand and stare at each other.

“Bedroom?” Scott finally asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “More room than the couch.”

“Right.” Scott heads there immediately, stripping off his shirt as he goes.

Stiles follows suit, tossing his shirt to the floor and unbuckling his belt. He pushes his pants and boxers down in one go, and tugs his socks off. When he stands up Scott is standing in front of him in an equal state of undress—which is to say completely fucking naked. It’s a good look on him.

“Um,” Scott says, reaching a hand back to scratch at the nape of his neck, and the move is so Scott that Stiles can’t help chuckling a bit. Somehow it puts him entirely at ease and he takes the few steps forward to close the distance between them so he can plant a kiss on Scott’s lips.

“If we never want to do this again after this, that’s totally cool,” Stiles says, enjoying the way Scott’s eyes have widened. “But right now, I’m going to blow you. Unless of course you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, that—yeah,” Scott manages. Stiles is momentarily distracted by the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, but then he smiles, kisses him again—with tongue this time, just for good measure—and gently pushes Scott onto the bed before dropping to his knees.

Scott’s still a bit soft, but Stiles can tell he’s getting there, that it won’t take long to work him to full hardness. So he decides to tease him a little first. Nips at his hip bones and laves his tongue in the creases there. He peppers biting kisses over Scott’s abs and rubs his hands over Scott’s thighs, enjoying the way his muscles jump when he hits the right spot.

Then he drags his tongue along the underside of Scott’s dick. Scott’s hands go immediately to his head, not to push him down, but to grasp at his hair, and Stiles will admit that he likes having his hair pulled a bit when he’s going down on someone, so he’s more than pleased when he swirls his tongue around the head of Scott’s dick and Scott’s fingers tighten in his hair.

He takes Scott down as far as he can without gagging, which is pretty far, but not as far as Stiles would like. He compensates with a hand at the base of Scott’s dick where his mouth won’t reach, but where he’s already slick with spit. He flicks his tongue over Scott’s slit, tasting the salty bitterness of precome, and swallows him down again, working up a rhythm.

“Jesus,” Scott says above him. His fingers are loosening and contracting in Stiles hair, fingernails occasionally scraping at his scalp, and Stiles tries not to think about how hard his own dick is getting. “Stiles,” Scott breathes. “Jesus fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles uses his other hand to grip Scott’s hip, holding him in place as he works his mouth over Scott, pressing his tongue to the underside of the head. Stiles has always liked going down on people—male or female—but especially likes giving blowjobs. Something about the heavy weight of a dick on his tongue and the musky heady scent of sex gets him going faster than almost anything else, and Scott is no exception. Quite the opposite. Because there’s no question, Scott has a nice dick, and he tastes good too. Stiles can’t help thinking, as he works his hand and mouth over him, bobbing and pressing lower to take as much of him as he can, how much he’d like to have Scott inside of him. Or rather, in places other than his mouth.

“Stiles,” Scott says again. And it sounds like a warning this time. “I’m—do you want me to…?”

Stiles just twists his hand, sucks a bit harder, and then he hears his name like Scott’s choking on it, feels a splash of come hitting the back of his throat as Scott’s fingers tighten in his hair to the point of pain. And Stiles swallows. He swallows as much as he can and then pulls back, wipes the spit and come from his chin with the back of his hand, and then sucks Scott down once more, gently this time, before letting him go with a pop. 

Scott shudders under him and then flops back on the mattress, breathing heavily. His hands are still on Stiles’ head, but they’re massaging now. Stiles lets himself lean against Scott’s thigh and enjoy it.

“Holy shit,” Scott says eventually. “I’m gonna…you…next. Just gimme a minute.”

Stiles chuckles and can’t help but feel extremely pleased with himself.

“Get up here,” Scott says, and Stiles obliges, clambering over Scott so he can kiss him, deep and filthy because half the fun of sex is the kissing and he’s not going to forgo that just because they’re doing this with no feelings.

Scott seems okay with it, since he cups his hand at the base of Stiles’ skull and follows his mouth when he pulls away, like he’s chasing the taste of himself on Stiles’ tongue.

“That was so hot,” Scott says.

Then, without warning, Stiles finds himself on his back with Scott hovering over him. He’s wearing a mischievous smile and he waggles his eyebrows. “Your turn,” he says, and then goes straight for Stiles’ neck, dragging his teeth over the tendons when Stiles tilts his head back to give him better access.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. How did Scott know he has a neck kink?

He can feel Scott sucking a hickey into his collar, and he’d say something about not leaving marks, but finds he doesn’t care. And then Scott moves to one of his nipples and he forgets what hickeys even are.

“Oh my fuck,” Stiles says, his hands scrabbling at the sheets for something to hang on to.

“Sensitive nipples. Okay,” Scott says, smiling up at him and looking far too smug. He moves over to the other one and flicks his tongue out, barely touching Stiles.

“Please,” Stiles says, and he’s begging, Jesus that’s pathetic. But he’s so hard already and this really isn’t fair. He can at least take some comfort in how undone Scott was a few minutes ago.

Scott raises his eyebrows in amusement and then he’s licking the palm of his hand. Before Stiles can figure out what’s happening, Scott’s mouth is on Stiles’ nipple again and his hand is on his dick, and Stiles thinks his eyes are about to roll out his sockets. He gasps and his hips buck into Scott’s touch. All his limbs are tingling and he can feel all sensation concentrating at the base of his spine, a pressure building, creating white light behind his eyelids.

Scott drags his thumb over the head of Stiles’ dick, smearing the precome that had gathered there, and then increases the speed and pressure of his hand.

“Scott,” Stiles breathes. Gasps, really. Somehow one of his hands has moved to Scott’s back, and he thinks he might be leaving marks with his fingernails, but everything feels too good for him to worry too much about that, and Scott’s not complaining.

Scott’s mouth is back at Stiles’ neck, sucking another mark there, this time into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Close,” Stiles manages.

And then Scott sinks his teeth into Stiles skin, not hard enough to break skin, but enough for Stiles to really feel it, and Stiles is coming. His whole body jerks, and his hands and feet go numb with it as Scott works him through it. 

Stiles takes a deep breath that shudders with an aftershock when Scott rubs his fingers through the come on Stiles’ stomach. He licks over the bite and then moves up to press a quick kiss to Stiles’ jaw.

“I was going to blow you, but you were really hot like this,” Scott says, his breath cool over the damp spots on Stiles’ skin.

Stiles shivers and moves into Scott’s space involuntarily. “I approve of your methods,” Stiles tells him. “And I definitely think that needs to happen again.”

“Oh yeah,” Scott says. Then he rolls away from Stiles and stands up to head to the bathroom. 

Stiles tries not to let himself be disappointed, but it’s hard when his muscles are still jellified from post-orgasm bliss. He’s always been a bit of cuddler and he wants nothing more than to curl up, preferably with Scott, and enjoy his sated, after-sex haze. 

Instead he gets a wet cloth lobbed at his face. To be fair, the cloth is at least warm.

Stiles grunts from under the cloth and then pulls it from his face to wipe up the mess on his stomach. He should really probably shower.

“You want to order pizza?” Scott asks, pulling his jeans back on. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, man,” Stiles says, trying not to stare as Scott’s abs disappear beneath the cotton of his t-shirt. “Can I use your shower? I’m kind of gross and this washcloth can only do so much.”

“Sure,” Scott says. He’s already distracted by his phone. “Meat lovers?”

It takes Stiles a moment to realize he’s asking about the pizza. “Ha,” Stiles says, because he’s a child and cannot help himself. “Sure dude.”

Scott rolls his eyes and starts placing the pizza order.

And it’s surprisingly normal after all that. Stiles gets out of the shower and Scott hands him a beer, and the pizza arrives ten minutes later. They manage to devour the whole thing while playing Mario Kart because Stiles had insisted on a rematch—with success, he might add—and that’s it. No weirdness. No uncomfortable silences, no awkwardness in their physicality. It’s the same as always.

Except that now Stiles has seen Scott naked and he’d really like to again.


	2. Chapter 2

Scott will admit that he’d been a bit worried the whole friends with benefits thing might backfire on him. If you’d asked him before he met Stiles, he would have insisted that friends with benefits is stupid and never works. But so far things have been going really well.

They hang out as much as they used to. They still go to the bar sometimes and grab lunch on their work breaks. They still play video games and watch movies, only now they do it in varying states of undress. They’ve mostly given up on wearing anything more than boxers when they hang out because sex always happens eventually, so really, it just makes things easier. 

Also, as it happens, playing Wii with fewer clothes on is a lot more fun.

They communicate really well too. Scott doesn’t think he’s ever been this open with someone he’s fucked before. It’s more enjoyable than he would have thought. It means they discover pretty quickly that they both like to switch things up, but Stiles still prefers to bottom, which is more than fine with Scott because he’s always preferred to top. And Scott doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more gorgeous than Stiles falling apart under him, opening for him so willingly. Scott tries not to think too much about what that might mean.

The point is that Scott could get used to this—sex without the complication and drama of emotions and real commitment. He’s starting to wonder why he’s never done it before.

Scott’s at Stiles’ apartment one night a couple weeks later, and he has Stiles on all fours underneath him. He’s draped over Stiles back, mouth pressed against the back of his neck, and Stiles is working himself in time with Scott’s thrusts.

And Stiles is fucking perfect like this. He really is. There’s sweat beading across his back and he’s hot and lithe under Scott, his body clenching around Scott so tightly Scott thinks he might pass out from it. Stiles is muttering obscenities under his breath, as he tends to do when he’s getting close, and Scott’s close too, though he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to draw this out longer.

And then someone calls Stiles’ name. Someone who is emphatically not Scott.

“Stiles?” the voice comes again.

“Oh shit!” Stiles says, and he’s out from under Scott before Scott can figure out what’s going on.

“Put these on,” Stiles says, and Scott finds a pair of boxers tossed at his head.

“Shit shit shit,” Stiles mutter, bent over, ass in the air as he tries to recover his own boxers.

And then the door opens revealing a man in a police uniform. Scott is relieved that he at least managed to pull himself together well enough to get his boxers on, even if he is still wearing the condom.

“Sti—oh my god!” the man at the door throws a hand over his eyes and turns his back to them. “Jesus Christ, Stiles.”

“Sorry, dad,” he replies, and Scott can see the full body blush that’s working its way over Stiles’ skin. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

“That’s your dad?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He looks mortified. “Shit. He opened the door to my bare ass, didn’t he?’

Scott gives him a sympathetic look.

“Fuck.”

“Why’s he dressed like a cop?” Scott asks, aware that it’s a stupid question even before it fully forms in his head. What can he say, he’s panicking a little.

“Um,” Stiles says slowly. “Because he’s a cop?”

“Fuck, man, you never told me your dad was a cop!” Scott shout-whispers at him. He’s having sudden visions of Stiles’ dad pulling a gun on him and giving him one of those horrible ‘what are your intentions?’ speeches. Stiles is a grown man. This is unlikely to happen. Scott knows this is unlikely to happen. It doesn’t stop the thought from running through his brain in vivid detail.

“What the fuck difference does it make?” Stiles asks. “You think he’s more likely to shoot you?” Because of course Stiles knows him well enough to guess what he was thinking. “I don’t know what your parents do.”

“My mom’s a nurse,” Scott says with a defensive edge. He’s not entirely sure where that’s coming from, though it likely has something to do with the internal fight or flight struggle he has going on at the moment. He’s pretty much stuck with either justifying his presence while Stiles’ dad is here, which is just a bit too couple-y for his liking, or running out of the apartment with his metaphorical tail between his legs. He’s leaning heavily towards the latter.

“Great,” Stiles says, tugging a shirt over his head. Scott’s shirt. “Now that we’ve established our parents’ occupations, maybe you could put on more clothing. You’re hot, but I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t want to meet you when you’re mostly naked.”

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Scott says.

“So wear mine,” Stiles says, and exits the bedroom.

Scott tugs his jeans on (after disposing of the condom) and then grabs Stiles’ shirt from where it’s lying mostly under the bed. It falls loosely over Scott’s shoulders without pulling despite Stiles’ leaner frame. The cotton is soft with age and it smells like the laundry detergent Stiles uses, which isn’t even something Scott should be noticing.

He makes his way out of the bedroom making sure to stay quiet, which is ridiculous for a number of reasons, the least of which is that Stiles’ dad is already viscerally aware of his presence.

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Scott hears from the kitchen, obviously Stiles’ dad.

“We’re not—” Stiles stops and Scott pauses in the hallway, waiting for his response. “We’re just friends.”

“Who have sex?”

“Jesus, dad, can we not?” 

Scott can practically see the cornered, defensive look that Stiles’ undoubtedly has on his face, so he takes a steadying breath and turns the corner to step into the kitchen and rescue Stiles, however temporarily, from this conversation.

“Um,” Scott says, then clears his throat. “Hi, Mr. Stilinski. I’m Scott.”

He reaches his hand forward because he has a death wish. Stiles’ dad levels him with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. He makes Scott wait the longest thirty seconds Scott has ever experienced before extending his own hand. To say he has a firm handshake would be grossly understating things. Scott is really proud of himself that he doesn’t wince.

“Nice to meet you,” Scott says, and what do you know? His voice stays even.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Stiles’ dad says. He doesn’t sound at all like he means it.

“Well, uh, I should probably go…” Scott says, gesturing helplessly behind him, thumb pointing to the door.

“Sure, man, I’ll see you later,” Stiles says.

Scott instinctively starts to shift forward to hug Stiles and immediately corrects the movement when Stiles crosses his arms. He raises his hand in an awkward wave instead and heads for the front door, doing his best not to seem in too much of a hurry. Though, to be honest, all three of them are probably anxious for him to leave.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Scott hears as he’s tugging the door closed behind him.

He doesn’t let himself wait for Stiles’ reply.

*

“It’s fine, dad, okay? Can we please just drop this?” Stiles says as soon as he hears the door thudding shut.

“Okay, okay,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “No more comments about your college-level sex life.”

“Dad!”

“No, okay, I’m done now.” 

He takes a seat at the kitchen table and gives Stiles one of his fond, lopsided smiles. Something in Stiles’ chest constricts a little.

“So how have you been?” his dad asks.

“Good,” Stiles replies with a shrug. “Not much to tell to be honest. Do not—” he says, pointing a finger before his dad can start.

“I didn’t say anything,” his dad insists.

Stiles narrows his eyes and then rolls them when his dad insists on maintaining his expression of false innocence. “You’re impossible,” he says with a sigh, taking the seat across the table from him.

“He’s attractive,” his dad offers and Stiles groans, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I thought we weren’t talking about this!”

“Look, Stiles, I don’t want to nag. You’re a big boy. I know you can look after yourself. I just want to make sure you’re not using this as an excuse to avoid really putting yourself out there.”

Stiles sits forward and then lets his head drop to his arms on the table with a noise of frustration that might best be described as a growl. Anything to avoid looking at the sympathetic and all-too-knowing expression on his dad’s face. He stays like that even as chair legs scrape across the floor and he feels a hand on one of his shoulders giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s get something to eat,” his dad says. 

Stiles tilts his head enough that he can see his dad’s face. “If I let you get whatever you want, will this conversation finally be over?”

His dad laughs and gives his shoulder another squeeze before letting go. “Deal.”

 

The next day Stiles stops by a different coffee shop on his way to work. It’s a new independent that opened about a week ago but that he hasn’t had a chance to visit yet. It turns out the barista is extremely attractive and extremely Stiles’ type: average height with well-muscled arms and tattoos that disappear under the sleeves of his t-shirt. He’s a bit scruffy, with dark hair and the darkest brown eyes Stiles has ever seen.

He flirts cautiously when he’s ordering because he’s not actually sure the guy swings that way and also, he’s not sure how to navigate a potential interest alongside everything he has going on with Scott. 

So he smiles and makes a stupid comment about the weather and tries not to blush too hard when the guy fucking winks at him when he hands him his coffee. And if that wasn’t enough to assure Stiles that he most definitely swings that way, the phone number on his coffee cup goes a long way to confirming it.

In an act of utter stupidity Stiles keeps the coffee cup, actually spends his entire workday staring at said coffee cup. And the stupid thing is not that he’s considering keeping the number. The guy is hot! And friendly! And he laughed at Stiles’ stupid weather joke! The stupid thing is that he hasn’t transferred the number to his phone or even a scrap of paper like a normal human. No. He’s kept the damn coffee cup. The stupid thing is that he’s spent his entire day stressed about this even though he and Scott agreed to a no-strings-attached scenario, even though he’s pretty sure Scott will tell him to go for it.

It’s ridiculous and Stiles feels ridiculous for it.

The coffee cup is still on his desk when he leaves the office that evening, but he’s at least made up his mind to talk to Scott. He figures it can’t hurt to let Scott know that there might be another prospect, or a prospect at all, Stiles guesses, since he and Scott aren’t actually a thing. 

The point is that Stiles has very good intentions when he swings by Scott’s apartment on his way home from work. And, okay, maybe he’d planned on staying for a couple beers and Guitar Hero. Maybe he’d even planned on pizza or Chinese or something from that Thai place around the corner. But he was not planning on sex.

Of course Scott answers the door in his boxer briefs, which leave exactly nothing to the imagination. Not that Stiles needs imagination, because he’s seen it all, but he really doesn’t need the reminder right now. Because Scott is objectively very attractive.

He’s also stoned at the moment.

Stiles can smell the weed as soon as the door opens and one look at Scott’s face tells him that, yes, Scott is very high. Which is fine by Stiles. They get high together enough that Stiles would like to partake, but it does rather put a dent in his plan to talk to Scott about their arrangement. He’d really rather do it when they’re both sober.

“You are so fucking high,” Stiles says when he steps inside.

Scott’s eyes crinkle up when he smiles and says, “I know.” He presses a kiss to Stiles cheek, open and wet and messy, and then asks, “You want some?”

“Sure dude,” Stiles replies, because if they’re not going to talk about this Stiles might as well be stoned too.

“Cool,” Scott says and ambles back over to the couch where he flops down and picks up the joint. It doesn’t look like he’s smoked any of it. 

“Have you already smoked a whole joint?” Stiles asks as he sinks into the couch beside him, waiting for him to pass it over.

Instead of answering, Scott takes a drag and then leans over to Stiles, cupping his hand at the base of Stiles’ head, then fits his mouth over Stiles’ and exhales. Stiles moves a hand to Scott’s hip to steady himself and inhales almost on instinct. Scott stays close as Stiles breathes out and the smoke dissipates between them. He’s so close Stiles could probably count his eyelashes. His eyes look a bit clearer this close up.

“Your turn,” Scott says, pressing the words to Stiles’ lips in a barely-there kiss.

Then he moves back to where he was sitting and passes the joint to Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t even pretend to have any self-restraint. He shifts and swings his leg over so he’s straddling Scott’s lap. Scott’s hands immediately find a place for themselves on Stiles’ thighs, thumbs rubbing over denim and Scott probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing that. Stiles settles one hand on the back of Scott’s neck and presses his thumb to the warm skin just behind his ear. Scott grins up at him, soft and stoned-happy. Stiles pretends the stutter in his chest is from the weed.

“What are you waiting for?” Scott asks, hands squeezing to make a point, eyes crinkling as his smile deepens the stupid dimples on his stupidly attractive face.

“Just enjoying it,” Stiles says, and his voice comes out kind of husky, of all things, and fuck, there’s no way he’s high already, though Scott might be high enough that he won’t notice how weird Stiles is being.

Stiles takes a hit to stop himself from saying anything else so utterly asinine, and rests his forehead against Scott’s when he exhales, letting their noses knock together but not their lips, and Scott takes a breathy gasp to suck all the smoke into his lungs. 

Scott releases it slowly and the smoke drifts between them clouding Stiles’ vision. Scott’s breath is hot against his mouth and his hands are trailing over the skin of Stiles’ back where they’ve worked their way under the fabric of his t-shirt. Stiles swallows. They probably should have moved by now, but Stiles can’t bring himself to pull away. 

It’s Scott who finally makes a move, tilting his face the smallest bit forward to press their lips together. He licks into Stiles’ mouth and presses his hands more firmly against his back, tugging Stiles forward. Stiles can feel the hard line of Scott’s dick against his own and he can’t help the way his hips twitch forward, seeking out friction. Scott gasps and Stiles takes advantage of his open mouth by pushing his tongue inside, seeking out more of the slick heat. Scott responds with enthusiasm, scrapes his fingernails against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles moves to dig his hands into Scott’s hair and remembers he’s still holding the joint. He pulls back reluctantly with a hoarse, “One sec,” and takes one more long drag before leaning back to set the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table. When he turns back he grabs Scott’s head between both his hands and blows the smoke into Scott’s open mouth. Stiles leans back to grin at him and finds his vision suddenly obscured by grey cotton, Scott having taken the opportunity to pull his shirt over his head.

Scott moves forward as soon as he tosses the t-shirt aside, and flicks his tongue against one of Stiles’ nipples. Stiles lets out a choked groan and bucks his hips, sliding his hand over the back of Scott’s head to keep him in place.

“Still too many clothes,” Scott says, the words damp where he breathes them into Stiles’ skin. His hands clench on Stiles’ thighs as though he might divest him of the denim if he rubs his hands over them hard enough.

At this point Stiles is radiating so much heat he’s surprised they’re not burning off of him. He places another kiss on Scott, biting at his lips because Scott likes it when they’re a little rough, and stands up to pull his jeans off. Scott takes the opportunity to remove his own boxers and Stiles is momentarily distracted by the sight of Scott’s dick, red and curved toward his belly, and the way Scott immediately takes himself in hand and gives a few short tugs. His head falls back against the couch and Stiles watches his throat bob as he swallows.

“Lube?” Stiles manages.

“Coffee table,” Scott replies, letting go of his dick in favour of rubbing over the back of Stiles’ thigh.

Stiles’ dick twitches every time Scott’s fingers brush over the sensitive inside skin of his leg, making him a bit lightheaded. He takes a shaky breath in an attempt to steady the buzzing in his head—he can’t tell if it’s from the weed or just from Scott, but he’s going to blame the weed because the latter is a possibility he doesn’t want to look at too closely.

So he grabs the bottle of lube off the coffee table, along with the condom that’s resting beside it, and kneels on the couch so he’s straddling Scott again. Scott’s hands are still sliding up and down his thighs, and the way he’s kneeling his cock is nearly level with Scott’s mouth. Scott smiles up at him, eyes nearly crinkling shut, and licks his lips. Stiles squeezes lube out onto shaking fingers, trying not to think too hard about why it is they’re shaking, and reaches back to rub the pad of one finger over his hole.

He moans when he presses his finger inside, squeezing his eyes shut as he bears down on himself and braces one hand on the back of the couch. He usually likes it better when Scott opens him up, but he’s going for efficiency right now, and also trying to avoid his increasingly complicated feelings regarding his best friend. 

“Jesus,” Scott whispers. His thumbs press into Stiles’ hips creating a point of pressure for Stiles to focus on as he inserts a second finger. 

Stiles opens his eyes in time to see Scott lean forward and lick a strip up Stiles’ dick before taking the head in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, hips twitching as they try to decide if they want to push forward into Scott’s mouth or back onto Stiles’ fingers. He feels like he’s about to burst into flames he’s so hot and the pressure building in his balls is starting to become overwhelming. Stiles stills his fingers, not trusting himself to hold off while Scott’s sucking him into the wet heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head in the way he knows drives Stiles crazy.

“Wait,” he manages to say, though it comes out kind of desperate, and he’s only mildly surprised when Scott immediately pulls off his dick with an obscene, smacking pop.

“Get that on,” Stiles says, nodding at the condom. “I’m almost ready.”

He works a third finger into himself, shutting his eyes against the image of Scott rolling the condom down his dick because he’s already going to have trouble lasting without that image burned into his brain. He can feel Scott shifting under him, sliding forward to give Stiles’ more room to maneuver. When he’s as stretched as he has patience for he tilts his hips forward and lowers himself onto Scott’s dick.

“Fuck,” Stiles murmurs, the burn giving way to pleasure as he settles into Scott’s lap. His dick twitches against Scott’s belly, smearing precome onto the smooth skin there, and he’s going to come without either of them laying a hand on him, he can tell already. 

No matter how many times Stiles does this he never gets over the sensation of being this full, like he’s about to burst with it, hovering on the edge of too much but at the same time never enough. He gives an experimental roll of his hips and Scott bites into his collarbone. Stiles lifts his hips and then bears back down, trying to find a rhythm that works.

“Stiles,” Scott moans. He reaches a finger down Stiles’ back to trace the edge of his hole where they’re connected.

Stiles gasps and clutches at Scott’s shoulders. He leans back, changing the angle to give himself more leverage. Scott meets the next roll of his hips with an upward thrust and hits his prostate, causing Stiles’ vision to white out for a moment. He barely recovers himself before Scott is thrusting up again. Stiles feels like his entire body is on fire, every inch of skin hyper-sensitized, pleasure building and buzzing just under the surface, deafening his ears and fogging up his brain. His senses are a jumbled clashing of selected points of contact: Scott sliding and slamming inside of him, Scott’s fingers pressing bruises into his hips, his dick rubbing against the planes of Scott’s stomach. He tightens his grip on Scott’s shoulders and meets Scott thrust for thrust with increasing force.

“Fu-Stiles,” Scott says, his voice straining. “Are you close? I can’t—”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, nearly choking on it as Scott hits his prostate again. His limbs feel as though they’re going numb, and it might just be the position he’s in, but it’s possible his blood has simply diverted elsewhere. “So close. Just a bit…”

“Shit,” Scott grits out, and then he slams up into Stiles and his whole body tenses as he comes. 

Stiles can feel him shuddering with it as his body bows forward so the entire length of his torso is pressed flush with Stiles. The move traps Stiles’ dick between them and with a couple more thrusts Stiles’ tumbles after him, coming all over both their stomachs. 

They stay like that for a long moment, come cooling between them, Stiles shaking with occasional aftershocks when his dick rubs against their slick, sticky skin. Scott rubs his hands up and down Stiles’ back and lets his head rest in the crook of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, breathing a warm, damp spot into his collarbone. 

He’s starting to soften. Stiles can feel him sliding out in increments as gravity does its job and he shifts against the strange emptying sensation. Eventually he lifts himself onto his knees, hissing as Scott slides out of him completely, trying not to be too disappointed by the sudden loss. 

Then Scott’s stomach rumbles and he starts laughing against Stiles’ chest.

“Dude, I’m so high,” he says.

Stiles snorts and lowers back into Scott’s lap.

“Let’s order a pizza,” Stiles says.

“Let’s order two pizzas,” Scott counters, looking up at Stiles with reddened eyes and a dopey, sated smile.

Stiles grins and then wrinkles his nose at the cooling sticky mess between them. “We need to clean off first.”

“Yeah, here,” Scott says, fishing his t-shirt off the arm of the couch and wiping them up the best he can. He shrugs and says, “We’ll shower later.”

Stiles laughs, which sets Scott to laughing. It takes them ten minutes to gather themselves enough to put clothes back on, and for Scott to dispose of the condom, and then another ten to agree on a pizza order. 

Stiles doesn’t remember the phone number on the coffee cup until he sees it on his desk the next morning.

*

Scott helps himself to a glass of water in Stiles’ kitchen after the gym while Stiles hangs back by the door. He’s been acting strange all morning, much quieter than usual and only giving Scott one-word answers. It’s so different from Stiles’ normally buoyant, confident self that Scott’s not sure how to respond. He’s become hyperaware of every word he says, feeling like it’s the wrong one every time.

“You want some water?” Scott asks, already grabbing another glass from the cupboard.

“Sure,” Stiles replies.

Scott turns and hands Stiles the glass. “You okay, dude?” If things are going to be awkward regardless, he might as well ask the blunt question.

“Hm?” Stiles says, mouth full of water. He swallows. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re all quiet and weird, man.”

Stiles leans back against the kitchen counter and rubs a hand over his head, a sure sign that he’s stressed about something. 

“Dude, c’mon, you can talk to me, you know?” Scott says, moving to lean beside him. “Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean we can’t talk about the important shit.”

Stiles’ mouth quirks up in the corner. “Yeah about that…”

Scott’s stomach drops a bit, but he ignores it, because that’s a weird reaction, and he waits Stiles out, giving him time to say what he needs to.

“There’s this barista at the new coffee shop around the corner,” he says, pausing to take another sip of water. “He kinda gave me his number.”

“Dude, that’s great!” Scott says, and if his heart speeds up, he doesn’t have to examine the ‘why’ of it too closely. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed, but either way he’s definitely happy for Stiles.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, smiling a bit, but wearing an expression Scott can’t decipher.

“Yeah, man,” Scott replies. “What did you think I was going to say?”

Stiles shrugs. “I dunno, man. It kind of ruins our arrangement.”

“Yeah, but the arrangement happened because neither of us is in a relationship. It wasn’t meant to stop potential relationships,” Scott insists. “What’d you say to him anyway?”

Stiles grimaces. “I haven’t called him yet.”

“What?” Scott yelps, entirely undignified, but it’s Stiles, he just huffs a laugh and lets his shoulders give a little jump. “Call him right now.”

“Dude, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Stiles says. “It’s weird.” His face is a little red, but Scott can’t tell if he’s blushing or if he’s still flushed from their workout. “Besides, he’s probably at work right now, and that’s a bad move. I’ll call him later.”

“Promise?” Scott asks, pointing his water glass at him.

“Promise,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows. “Why are you so invested in this?”

“Because, man, you’re my best friend. I just want you to be happy.”

Stiles grins at him, one of his cocky, shit-eating grins. “I’m your best friend?” he asks, like the smug bastard he is.

“Well, I only know like five other people in New York, so,” Scott teases. Stiles knows that’s a lie. Scott has made plenty of friends in New York, but none of them are Stiles.

“You’re not so bad yourself, bro,” Stiles says. “Now c’mon. It’s too nice out to be stuck inside. Let’s go get some ice cream or something.”

“You’re buying,” Scott says, and dodges the smack Stiles was aiming at him as he darts out the door.

Scott is happy for Stiles. He really is. Stiles deserves someone who will commit, who’s in it for the long haul. Not that Scott isn’t in it for the long haul, because he’s pretty sure they’ll be friends for the rest of their lives, but he’s not looking for a relationship right now. He’s still adjusting to living in a new city and having this new corporate job. He’s definitely not ready to commit to someone on that level. Besides which, he and Stiles are friends. Who fuck. They’re friends who used to fuck. Whatever. The point is that their arrangement was never anything other than temporary and casual and that’s what they both agreed to and that’s what Scott wanted—what he still wants! It’s just weird because they’ve gotten used to being all up in each other’s space all the time. Not just like personal bodily space, but in their apartments too. Scott has gotten used to Stiles being around a lot. And now he’s not. So obviously there’s going to be an adjustment period.

“Who are you trying to convince here?” Isaac asks.

They’re sitting on a bench in Central Park after work one day, eating hot dogs and drinking coffee that Isaac had insisted they get from Starbuck’s, making for one of the weirdest food and drink combinations Scott has ever experienced.

Isaac takes what might be a pointed sip of his iced chai latte when Scott doesn’t answer right away, lips pursing exaggeratedly around his straw. He’s wearing a scarf even though it’s about ninety degrees out, but the whole look is so typically Isaac that Scott doesn’t mention it. A couple months of working with him and Scott has mostly learned not to ask. Isaac is a little weird. It’s part of his charm.

“I’m not trying to convince anyone of anything,” Scott says eventually. “We’re just having a conversation.” He takes a sip of his own coffee, which is not iced, because iced coffee tastes strange. Actually this coffee kind of tastes strange, but he thinks that might be due to the sauerkraut on his hot dog, or maybe just the hotdog. Scott makes a face at his drink. His taste buds are betraying him. Or he might be betraying his taste buds.

“Scott?”

“What?”

“And you think I’m weird,” Isaac says, his eyebrow arching like a Disney villain.

“I don’t think you’re weird!” Scott insists.

“I am weird,” Isaac replies, and he might be talking about the weather for how casually he says it. “I said, have you met him?”

“The guy Stiles is seeing?”

“No, Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour,” Isaac says, and all Scott can do is wonder how Isaac can take something Stiles would say and make it sound nothing like how Stiles would ever say it.

“No, I haven’t met him,” Scott replies. “But Stiles thinks he’s great, so…”

“So?” Isaac says. He takes another sip of his latte and drags out the slurping sound that means there’s nothing left.

“If Stiles is happy, I’m happy,” Scott insists.

Isaac raises both eyebrows this time and lifts the ridiculous purple Ray Bans he’s wearing to his forehead so Scott can look him in the eye. “Do you actually hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Friends are happy when their friends are happy!” Scott insists, and then frowns as he thinks about whether or not that sentence made sense. It’s better than thinking about how defensive he’s being about the whole thing.

“Whatever, man,” Isaac says. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I am,” Scott says. Because he is. Then he frowns when he realizes Isaac was being sarcastic.

“Okay then,” Isaac replies, nodding his head like a pigeon who’s been endowed with the wisdom of the ages. Scott doesn’t understand how Isaac is real sometimes. “I have to go, though.”

“Sure dude,” Scott says, and returns Isaac’s half-hearted wave with a minutely more enthusiastic one. He still can’t tell if he and Isaac are friends. He’s pretty sure they are. At least insofar as Isaac even has friends. 

Scott watches Isaac swagger away and then makes a face at his coffee before dumping it in the trashcan beside him. At least he’s established that he’s definitely not jealous. Not like that anyway. He might be jealous that he gets roughly half of Stiles’ time now, but that’s just a friend thing. Totally a friend thing. Yeah.

Which doesn’t explain the punched-in-the-gut feeling that accompanies hearing about Stiles’ new boyfriend. Because apparently they’re an item now. It doesn’t explain the constriction in Scott’s chest or the way he has to swallow around the sudden dryness in his throat. 

He might be coming down with something.

“Honestly, man, he’s so cool,” Stiles says. “And he’s got such a good head for business. He’s already starting to pay off his debts on that place. It’s incredible. Plus, he gives me all the free coffee I want. And you know that caffeine is the way to my heart.”

“The way to your heart attack,” Scott snips, and promptly dies in the game they’re playing. “Fuck,” he mutters, tossing the controller away from himself. 

Stiles levels him with a confused expression. “You okay, bro?”

“Yeah, man, sorry,” Scott says. He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m just tired. Tell me more about Nick.”

Stiles’ face lights up immediately and Scott can’t help but grin at that.

“Did I mention how hot he is? Because he is so hot,” Stiles says. “I mean the arms on this guy. And he’s got all these tattoos. You know how I feel about tattoos.”

“How’s the sex?” Scott asks, turning to smirk at Stiles.

“Uhhh,” Stiles says. He picks at his the seam of his jeans. “We haven’t actually had sex yet?” He brings a hand up to rub the back of his head and tilts his face towards Scott.

“Seriously?” Scott asks, pointedly ignoring the victorious leap in his stomach. “Haven’t you gone on like, five dates?”

“I’m trying not to rush it,” Stiles says, laying his hands out flat in front of him. “Okay? I always jump into bed with people and it never works out, so I figured, let’s try something new. Can’t hurt, right?”

“Can’t hurt,” Scott agrees. “When are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow night,” Stiles says. “I’m thinking if I wait like…two more dates. Then I’ll sleep with him.”

Scott snorts. “That’s more self control than I have.” He’s never gone longer than two dates before sleeping with someone. Maybe that’s his problem. He frowns down at his hands.

“You have no idea,” Stiles says. “You really need to meet this guy. You’ll be even more impressed by my self control when you do.” He pauses. “Or maybe you won’t. I’m not actually that familiar with your taste in guys.”

“I don’t have a type,” Scott insists, mostly to avoid saying tall and lean with brown hair and brown eyes because it might be true, but it also perfectly describes Stiles.

He’s expecting Stiles to goad him into answering, but instead he says, “Want to go grab some beers somewhere? I’m bored with this game anyway.”

“Sure,” Scott replies.

“Maybe we can get you laid,” he says with a wink, squeezing Scott’s knee. “I’ll live vicariously through you until I unfasten the chastity belt.”

“The self-imposed chastity belt,” Scott says. “I’m not even sure you’re right about that theory.”

“Well, we’ll find out won’t we,” Stiles says.

Scott gives him an incredulous look, but gets up off the couch. He cuffs Stiles in the back of the head as he makes his way to door. “C’mon loser. Let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles is lying on Scott’s bed, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it while Scott packs for his flight tomorrow morning. He’s going to visit his mom and some friends in California and Stiles can maybe admit he’s a little jealous. He’d thought he and Scott would be spending Fourth of July weekend together. He could probably see what Nick is doing and drag him along to Kira’s barbeque if all goes well tonight, but he’d rather spend it with Scott.

“Can you pass me that sweater?” Scott asks.

Stiles lifts himself enough that he can see where Scott is pointing and then reaches behind his head to grab the sweatshirt that’s balled up on the pillow.

“So is tonight the night?” Scott asks, taking the sweater from Stiles.

Stiles tosses the baseball in the air again and Scott snatches it before Stiles is able to catch it again.

“Dude,” Scott says.

Stiles drags himself into a sitting position. “Yeah, tonight’s the night.”

He should probably work on sounding more enthusiastic about the whole thing. Because he is enthusiastic about finally boning Nick. Nick is hot. And really nice. And cool. He’s fun to hang out with and he gives Stiles free coffee. And Stiles like Nick, he likes Nick a lot. 

“Try to contain your excitement,” Scott deadpans.

Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs the nearest item to toss at Scott’s head: a pair of balled up socks. Scott just laughs and chucks them in his suitcase.

“I am excited,” Stiles says. “I’m just trying to recover from your abandonment right now.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Scott says. “I’ll be back in four days.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to miss fireworks! And Kira’s masterfully crafted burgers!”

“Next year,” Scott says. “Promise.”

Stiles can’t help but smile at that because it means Scott likes his new job enough to stay; it means he’s more or less decided to stay beyond the one-year contract. Stiles decides not to point that out for fear of jinxing it.

“Fine,” Stiles says. “Is it childish or adorable if I wear my Batman boxers tonight?”

“If Nick has eyes he won’t be paying attention to your boxers, bro,” Scott says. “But I’m in full support of the Batman boxers if that’s the way you want to go.”

Stiles feels a flush creep up his neck into his cheeks and ducks his head in an attempt to hide it.

“Okay,” Stiles mutters, deciding he won’t wear the Batman boxers after all. It is absolutely not because he knows Scott likes them.

“Oh, hey,” Scott says, tossing an envelope in Stiles’ lap. “I got you something. Now you’ll have to forgive me for leaving you alone on Fourth of July weekend.”

Stiles looks up at Scott, who’s beaming a dimpled smile, and raises a skeptical eyebrow. He flips the envelope open and pulls out tickets. Mets tickets. Right behind home plate. 

“Dude, these are really good seats,” Stiles says. 

“I know, right?” Scott says, voice lilting with excitement. “I mean Isaac said they were, anyway. And they’re playing the Texas Rangers.”

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, sliding the tickets back into the envelope. He’s aware that Scott probably got them through work—some promotional connection or another—so they likely didn’t cost him anything, but he would’ve had to request Mets tickets over Yankees tickets, and something about the fact that Scott was thinking about him when offered baseball tickets causes a strange feeling in his chest. Stiles swallows against it.

“Yeah, no worries,” Scott says absently, unaware of the minor cardiac event Stiles is dealing with. He takes a cursory glance around the room and then zips up his bag. “I think that’s everything.”

Stiles glances down at his watch. “Shit. I should go,” he says. “Dinner in an hour. I have to make myself presentable. Shower. Make sure I don’t smell.”

Scott snorts as Stiles lifts himself off the bed.

“Good luck tonight,” Scott says. “And don’t over-think it.”

“Over-think?” Stiles says with mock indignation. “Since when do I over-think anything?”

“Seriously?” Scott says, grinning like he’s just heard the most amusing joke of all time. 

“Whatever, dude,” Stiles replies. “I’m getting laid tonight.” He wiggles his hips a bit as he walks to the door. “Text me when you land tomorrow.”

“Oh I’ll be texting you before that,” Scott says.

“I am not giving you the sordid details of my sex life,” Stiles calls from where he’s now in the hallway. He hears Scott laugh and grins, making his way out of the apartment.

*

Scott gets Stiles on the phone as soon as he’s in the cab the next morning.

“Yeah,” Stiles bites out when he answers. 

“Uh, it’s Scott,” Scott says, even though he knows Stiles has a personalized ring tone programmed for him. “You okay, man?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’” Stiles replies, and Scott can hear the air quotes.

Stiles doesn’t give him any more than that, so Scott asks, “What happened?”

Stiles sighs. “Ugh,” he says. “It’s nothing, really. Just Nick.” Stiles pauses and Scott waits him out. “I caught him sneaking out this morning. I went out for a smoke and he thought I’d left I guess. Apparently, ‘I’m cute, but he’s not looking for a relationship right now.’ I mean if he’d just wanted to fuck, he could’ve asked. I probably would’ve been down for that, the whole waiting thing aside.”

“I thought you quit smoking,” Scott says, frowning and trying to process all that information.

“That’s what you got out of that?” Stiles demands.

Scott winces. “Sorry.” He waits a beat. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just pissed off, you know? I usually have better asshole radar than that.”

“Asshole radar?” Scott asks with a grin. Then he interrupts whatever Stiles was about to say with, “You should come to L.A. with me.” 

“What?”

Scott isn’t expecting Stiles to agree right away. Stiles hasn’t packed. He actually has plans for the weekend. And he doesn’t have a plane ticket. But all of those are surmountable barriers and Scott finds it suddenly critical that Stiles says yes.

“You should come to L.A.,” Scott repeats, this time with more force. “There’s plenty of room at my mom’s. She’d be happy to have you. And you’ll be able to meet Allison and Lydia. What would you really be missing here, anyway? Throw some clothes and a toothbrush in a bag and buy a ticket at the airport.”

“First of all, I’d be missing Kira’s burgers,” Stiles begins. “Secondly, what if all the seats are sold out and then I’m stranded at the airport by myself? And are you talking about Allison your ex-girlfriend Allison, or is this a different Allison?”

“Yes my ex-girlfriend Allison, if the seats are sold out you can get on the next flight, and you can have Kira’s burgers next year. Or at the next party she has. You said she has parties all summer,” Scott responds. “C’mon, please? It’ll be fun and I can stop you from moping all weekend.”

“I don’t mope,” Stiles protests.

“Listen, I’m headed over to your apartment now, so pack a bag or you’ll just have to buy all the shit you need when we get there,” Scott says, sensing that Stiles’ resolve is crumbling and is about to agree.

“Fine,” Stiles grumbles, as though being in L.A. for the Fourth of July is an immense hardship. 

Scott ignores his tone and shouts, “Yes!” into the phone. “This will be great. I’ll see you in a few.”

Two hours later Scott finds himself sitting next to Stiles on the plane. Never let it be said that Stiles can’t talk his way into getting what he wants, even if it’s a highly coveted window seat. 

Scott looks up from the overpriced menu of shitty airplane food and finds Stiles staring out the window with his head resting on the glass.

“You okay, man?” Scott says, resisting the urge to rest his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck even though it’s a common gesture between them.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rolling his head so that he’s looking at Scott.

“I’m sorry about Nick,” Scott says.

Stiles gives him a small smile and twitches his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, and then adds, “Honestly,” when Scott gives him a skeptical look. “Seriously, man. I’m fine. Nick was cool, but it’s not that. I just…you ever feel like you’re going to be alone forever?”

“No,” Scott says, because he’s honestly never considered it. He’s always assumed that when the time was right, he’d meet somebody, and maybe get married, consider having kids, and sometimes he gets lonely, but he’s never thought it won’t happen eventually.

“Seriously?” Stiles says, brows raised.

“No, man,” Scott replies. “First of all, you’re awesome, and anyone would be lucky to have you. And second of all, that kind of negative thinking isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, so Scott can’t help smiling too.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, and before Scott knows it they’re pulling up to his mother’s house. Scott steps out the cab and takes a deep breath of the salty air coming in from the Pacific. He shuffles his feet a bit, enjoying the familiar grit of sand that’s always dusted over the driveway, blown in from the beach. It’s almost too much—the crashing waves and the cool breeze and the scent coming off the water—and his senses are overwhelmed with familiarity. He lets his eyes fall shut and just breathes for a moment.

When he opens them, he finds Stiles resting his arms on the roof of the cab staring out at the ocean view. Scott smiles at the way Stiles’ hair is being ruffled by the wind and his pulse kicks up a notch, causing a hitch in his breathing. He finds himself suddenly and inexplicably nervous, which doesn’t make any sense because it’s just his mom and Allison and Lydia. He tells himself he’s nervous on Stiles’ behalf because it’s easier than admitting it’s because he wants them to like Stiles. Not that there’s any reason they wouldn’t, but he’s realizing now, with a sharp stab to his gut, how important it is to him. 

“Boys?” Scott’s mom calls, coming out to meet them.

“Mom!” Scott says, and hurries to pull her into a hug, lifting her off the ground enough that she lets out a small yelp. 

“This is Stiles,” Scott says, when he releases her.

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says, extending his hand.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, stepping forward to wrap her arms around him. “Scott talks about you so much I feel like I already know you. Please tell me he’s actually made more than one friend.”

“Mom!” Scott says, widening his eyes at her as warmth creeps up his face.

She shrugs, but Stiles has ducked his head and is sporting a flush of his own, so at least Scott’s not alone in his mortification. Still, as she glances between them with a look that grows more knowing with every turn of her head Scott feels a creeping anxiety in chest. 

“Are Allison and Lydia here yet?” Scott asks, cutting off whatever horrifying comment was about to come out of her mouth.

“Yes, they’re just getting some food together,” his mom says, apparently deciding to keep her opinion to herself for the time being. Small victories, Scott thinks. “Do you need help with your bags?” she asks.

“No, thanks, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles says. “We didn’t bring much.”

“Please, call me Melissa.”

The smile Stiles gives her has an edge of sadness to it and Scott blinks, realizing with a sudden shock that he doesn’t know much about Stiles’ own mother other than the fact that she died when he was ten. 

“You’re mom seems cool,” Stiles says, when she leaves. He’s not looking at Scott, is looking instead at the front door his mother just disappeared through. 

“Yeah, she is,” Scott says with a note of pride. Stiles gives him a full, genuine smile in return.

Allison and Lydia are all over Stiles the moment they walk into the kitchen, which is no less unfortunate for its predictability. Scott has an extraction plan ready if they start to suffocate him.

“So you’re Allison,” Stiles says when she introduces herself. “You’re the only ex he has anything good to say about.”

“The very same,” she replies, and Scott can’t help being pleased with the satisfied way she says it.

“And you two are together?” he asks, gesturing between her and Lydia.

“That was the reason we broke up,” Scott chimes in, grabbing two beers from the fridge and grinning when Lydia glares at him.

“Please,” she says, grabbing the beer he’d just uncapped for Stiles. “As though you weren’t already fretting over Danny by that point.” Scott frowns at her and turns back to fridge, but Allison is already passing Stiles a bottle. “He makes me sound like a home wrecker,” Lydia says to Stiles.

“We were just better as friends,” Allison says, gracious as ever, and loops her arm through Scott’s, leaning up to place a kiss on his cheek.

Lydia snorts. 

“I don’t remember you mentioning a Danny?” Stiles says, turning to face Scott by taking a place next to Lydia. She gives him a smug look and between that and Stiles’ teasing grin he can already tell these two are going to be dangerous together.

“He was just someone I dated for a bit,” Scott says, more defensive than he needs to be. “Like you’ve told me about everyone you’ve ever dated?”

“I’ve dated very few people,” Stiles says. “I’ve slept with a lot of people.”

“I like him,” Lydia says.

“Oh no,” Allison chuckles. “Good luck.” She gives Scott a pat on the arm and moves towards the counter to grab the bowl of tortilla chips and guacamole to bring outside, where Scott’s mom has already set up the rest of the food.

“Whatever,” Scott says, moving to follow Allison. “It ended very amicably.”

“All of Scott’s relationships end amicably,” Lydia tells Stiles as they follow behind Scott.

“That is not true,” Scott protests. “Jason and I did not end amicably.”

“But you would have if you’d stayed in California,” Lydia asserts.

“How do you know it would have ended at all if I’d stayed in California?” Scott demands, making himself sound far more insulted than he actually is. Truthfully he’s missed the banter between them and he’ll argue with Lydia about this all night if she lets him.

It ends up being Allison who laughs in response, though. “You were terrible for each other!”

“No we weren’t,” Scott says with a frown. Whatever Jason was, they weren’t terrible for each other. Allison and Lydia seem to be of the opinion that Scott has no idea what he’s doing in his love life, and they may have a point, but it’d be nice if they gave him a little more credit than that.

“Jason? Yes you were, honey,” his mother says, taking their side.

“Oh my god!” Scott sighs and Stiles laughs, his whole body shaking with it. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he tells Stiles. “Just wait until it’s you they’re after.”

“Dude, I’m sorry, but I spoke to Jason on the phone, and I think they might be right,” Stiles says, a semi-pained look on his face like he’s sorry, but not sorry enough to stop himself from laughing.

“You talked to Jason?” Allison asks.

“I think ‘Jason hung up on him after he stole my phone’ is a more accurate version of that story,” Scott insists.

Stiles shrugs. “He didn’t even wait to hear who I was. I could’ve been your new secretary. Or a friend. Which is what I am. Talk about an overreaction.”

Scott glares at Stiles and finishes off his beer to cover up the way his heart stutters over that last part. “You’re all terrible,” he says. “I’m going to get myself another beer. Anyone need anything?”

“Could you grab me another?” Allison asks.

Scott nods and makes his way back inside. When he pulls out of the fridge he nearly bumps into his mom, who’s standing right next time. 

“Shit,” Scott breaths, bringing one hand to his chest to calm his breathing and coax his heart back down from his throat. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” she says with a rueful smile.

“You going to bed?” Scott asks.

“I’ve got an early shift,” she says. “I’ll be home in time for dinner tomorrow.”

“And fireworks?”

“And fireworks,” she agrees.

Stiles’ laughter floats in from outside, distinct even amidst the combined laughter of Allison and Lydia, and Scott glances over at the screen door, tilting his head to try to catch of glimpse of the full-body flail that usually accompanies such a laugh. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he turns back to his mom and sees the soft look she’s giving him.

“What?” he asks, even though he can probably guess at what she’s going to say.

“There’s nothing going on there?” she asks, gesturing between him and the door.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Scott says, opting to play dumb.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Yes you do.”

Scott sighs and concentrates on not glancing towards the door again. It’s harder than it should be. “We’re just friends,” he says eventually.

She gives him an incredulous look. 

“I don’t know, okay?” he says, helplessly, crumbling under her expression. “I just…he’s not…we said—” Scott lets out a sound like a growl from his chest in frustration. “I don’t want to complicate things.”

“Sounds like it’s already complicated,” his mom says, and Scott’s shoulders slump under the realization that she’s right. She gives him a sympathetic look and places her hands on both his shoulders, giving him a small shake. “Hey,” she says. “Relax. If it makes a difference I think he likes you too. I just don’t want to see you mess this up because you’re worried about messing it up or some other dumbass reason, because I love you—I love you a lot—but when it comes to love you’re not always the smartest.”

“Thanks,” Scott says, sarcastic, but then she pulls him into a hug and rubs her hands over his shoulders like she used to when he was a kid and when he says, “Thanks,” a second time, he means it. 

After several drinks and more embarrassing stories than Scott cares to think about, he heads to his old room. He should be exhausted, but he’s too restless to sleep. He’s too distracted by the fact that Stiles is in the next room, which is ridiculous on so many levels that Scott finds himself wandering over to Stiles’ room to stop thinking about it. He’ll admit that the logic of that leaves something to be desired. 

Stiles looks up from his phone when Scott enters after giving the door a gentle knock. He’s leaning back on the pillows of the bed, t-shirt riding up and pajama pants slung low leaving a strip of skin exposed. 

“Hey man,” he says, giving Scott a smile that is mostly for show. His lips quirk up, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes and Scott wants to bring a real smile to his face, like the one he was wearing just moments ago on the patio.

Without giving himself time to think about it, Scott walks over to the bed, making sure the door shuts behind him, and climbs onto the bed so he’s straddling Stiles’ stomach. Stiles flinches in surprise and looks at Scott with wide eyes. 

“Nick’s an asshole,” Scott says before Stiles can even open his mouth to comment. 

“I know,” Stiles says, eyes flicking away for a split-second, so fast that Scott wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t watching his face so closely.

“Do you?” Scott asks. 

“Just because he’s an asshole doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be upset about it,” Stiles says, sounding defensive, and that is the opposite of what Scott wants.

Instead of replying, Scott leans forward and kisses him. Stiles responds instinctually, pushing away from the pillows to move in closer and parting his lips to let Scott in. His hands reach for Scott’s sides and clutch at the fabric of his shirt. Goosebumps prickle over Scott’s skin and he doesn’t bother trying to repress the shudder that ripples through his body as his rolls his hips down.

“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore,” Stiles says, pulling back just far enough to get the words out so his breath ghosts warm over Scott’s lips.

“Yeah, but you need cheering up,” Scott insists. “And what are friends for?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not for casual sex,” Stiles replies, but he catches Scott’s lips with his own again and trails one of his hands under his shirt. 

Scott grins against his lips and gets his hands in Stiles’ hair so he can tug at it, the way he knows drives Stiles crazy. He’s rewarded with a groan that he feels more than hears and all he can think about is getting Stiles to makes that sound again, about how he’s going to take Stiles apart and leave him boneless with it. 

“I’m going to make this so good for you,” Scott says, grinning against his ear. He drags his teeth over the lobe and kisses down Stiles’ neck. “Get your clothes off.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, tugging his shirt over his head before moving to pull at Scott’s. “You’re going to kill me.”

Scott smiles at him so wide he can feel his muscles straining. He plants a quick kiss on his lips and then swings his leg over to give Stiles room to shuck his pants and to wriggle out of his own. And then Stiles is sprawled out in front of him, already half hard, and it takes a lot of self-control on Scott’s part not to just take Stiles in his mouth and bring him off that way. But he has other plans.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” Scott says, leaning back on his heals to get a good look at the long expanse of bare skin before him. 

Stiles averts his eyes and flushes, the red warmth creeping up his neck and down his chest and Scott can’t help leaning down to nip at his collarbone and drag his tongue from the hollow of his throat up the tendons of his neck to his jaw. He tastes salty and faintly of soap and Scott would be content to do this for the rest of his life. 

Scott takes a deep breath, forcing that thought down, and pulls back again. “Feel like turning over for me?” he asks.

“Straight for the main event, huh?” Stiles says, but obliges by getting on his hands and knees, leaning forward on his forearms so his ass is in the air.

“Not quite,” Scott says, mouth against his shoulder blades as he drapes himself over Stiles’ body.

Scott peppers kisses down Stiles’ spine, working his way down until he’s at the cleft of his ass and he spreads Stiles’ cheeks, eliciting a gasp now that Stiles realizes what he’s about to do. He starts by licking flat over Stiles’ hole, getting him good and wet before pointing his tongue to flick over him, catching his rim. Stiles twitches under him, buries his face in the pillow to muffle a moan. Scott moves down to lick a stripe up from Stiles’ perineum and then trace his tongue around the edge of his hole before licking him in earnest, pressing more firmly against him until he can feel the muscle start to give. He pulls back and blows air over the wet pucker, eliciting another groan from Stiles, and then moves back in, slicking him enough to press his thumb in just to the knuckle. Stiles’ hands clench against the pillow and he bucks back, seeking out more of Scott’s mouth, so Scott obliges by pushing his tongue in alongside his thumb. 

“Oh fuck,” Stiles shudders, tilting his face sideways on the pillow. His cheeks are bright red and he’s panting. “Never stop.” Scott closes his lips to apply suction and Stiles lets out a broken sound like a choked back sob. 

Scott pulls his thumb out so his tongue can have better access and he presses his face against Stiles until his nose is digging into his skin. He kneads his hands over Stiles’ ass and then dips one hand around his waist to stroke his dick. He’s leaking precome and Scott moans into Stiles, burying his tongue deeper as Stiles lets out a litany of incoherent swearing. 

“Scott,” he pants. “Scott please. Scott I need you to fuck me.”

“Fuck,” Scott breathes, pulling back and mouthing over the base of Stiles’ spine. “You’re fucking perfect like this. It’s not even fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how you’re making me wait for this,” Stiles says impatiently. “There’s a condom in the front pocket of my bag.”

Scott sits back and raises his eyebrows, his heart jumping at the thought that Stiles might’ve anticipated this.

Stiles just rolls his eyes at the expression. “It’s an overnight bag. I keep it in there just in case. That way I don’t ever forget it.”

“Sure,” Scott says, playing up the skepticism as he goes to grab the supplies. 

Scott grabs the condoms and then realizes there’s no lube. He turns to ask Stiles about it only to find him working himself open already, an uncapped bottle of lube next to him on the bedside table. The sight stops Scott for a moment, leaving him to stare and contemplate the fact that Stiles had probably scheduled some self-love for himself that evening until Scott showed up because why else would he have a bottle of lube so easily accessible?

“Get over here,” Stiles grunts. He’s still on all fours and Scott can’t help kissing over his back again when he climbs back onto the bed, tracing the constellation of moles that pepper his skin. 

Scott rolls the condom on and then slicks himself up with lube. He uses the excess to press two fingers into Stiles, testing a third to make sure. “You ready?” he asks, even though he feels ready, slick and tight around his fingers, but giving easily to the stretch. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah, I’m ready. C’mon.”

Scott pulls out his fingers and presses forward, feeling slight resistance before the eventual give that lets him slide all the way in. He drapes himself over Stiles’ back, breathing deeply to steady himself before giving an experimental thrust. They’ve done this so many times, but something about this feels different, more desperate. Stiles’ skin is on fire where they’re pressed together, sweat beading along his shoulders and the nape of his neck. Scott hooks one arm under Stiles’ and over his shoulder, holding him in place as he works up a rhythm, and uses the other to rub his thumb over Stiles’ nipples. 

Stiles swears and turns his head around to catch Scott’s lips. Scott leans in to reach him better, but the angle is awkward and Scott needs more.

“Just a sec,” Scott says, stopping to pull out, laying a soothing hand on Stiles’ hip when he whines. “Shh, I gotcha. I just want you to turn over,” he says, adding gentle pressure to ease Stiles onto his back. “I want to look at you,” he murmurs, bumping his nose against Stiles’ when he leans down to kiss him. 

Stiles arches up under him, hands tight in Scott’s hair, fingernails scraping at his scalp, and he sucks Scott’s bottom lip into his mouth. Scott mouths over Stiles’ jaw, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, then pushes back into Stiles with a bitten-off groan. “Jesus,” he breathes. 

“Most people call me Stiles,” he says with a chuckle. 

Scott grins and kisses him again, trails a hand down Stiles’ ribcage, over his ass, and up his leg where it’s hitched over Scott’s shoulder. He lets his forehead rest against Stiles’, noses nudging together and breath mingling. Their eyes meet and the mood in the room changes. Scott’s heart rate picks up even as they slow down, moving into an easy rhythm. Stiles has moved one hand down to Scott’s neck, thumb rubbing at the skin behind his ear, and wrapped his other arm around Scott’s waist, tugging him closer with every upward thrust.

Scott places a kiss on Stiles’ cheekbone and then moves to his lips. Stiles responds with a broken moan, eyes falling shut as he grabs at Scott’s wrist. Scott twines their fingers together and pushes their clasped hands above Stiles’ head on the pillow. Stiles squeezes, knuckles going white, and pants, “Scott.”

Scott nuzzles at Stiles’ neck, lips resting against his skin, leaving a damp spot near his collarbone. He’s getting close, the tight heat of Stiles sending sensations up his spine. He speeds up his thrusts, angles his hips differently, and draws a sharp groan out of Stiles when he hits the right spot. He presses their foreheads together again and then reaches between them to wrap his around Stiles’ dick, sending him into an incoherent ramble. 

“C’mon,” Scott says, placing a gentle kiss on Stiles lips. “Come for me. You’re so good, I just need you to come for me.”

“Scott,” Stiles groans, almost pleading. Scott kisses him again, and again, light pecks that are incongruous with his sharp thrusts. “I’m—” Stiles tenses under him, digs his fingers into Scott’s back and arches up, trapping Scott’s hand between them. Scott gives another small thrust and Stiles spills between them, sticky warmth over Scott’s hand.

He keeps his thrusts shallow and slow as Stiles comes down from his orgasm, tremors running through his body in aftershocks whenever Scott brushes his prostate. He looks wrecked. Hair skewed in different directions, face shiny and flushed red, and eyes half-lidded with post-climax exhaustion. His chest is rising and falling rapidly as he tries to catch his breath. Scott thinks he’s never seen anyone so fucking gorgeous. 

There’s a rogue ‘I love you’ hovering at the back of Scott’s throat, so he kisses Stiles to stop it from escaping, brushes their tongues together and starts moving his hips again, clenching his hand around Stiles’ lax fingers. He can feel his orgasm building in every inch of his body, tingling through his arms and legs, into his fingers and toes, and exploding in his stomach and at the base of his spine. Stiles gets a hand in Scott’s hair and it’s the gentle scrape of his fingernails over Scott’s scalp that pushes him over the edge, causing him to white out as his orgasm slams out of him.

Scott stays collapsed on Stiles for a moment after, only aware of the occasional shiver that runs down his spine and Stiles’ fingers still in his hair. He starts regaining the rest of his senses in increments: the way his thigh is cramping, sweat cooling on his back, the scent of Stiles’ skin where his nose is pressed against the crook of his neck. Scott swallows, considering all the ways this could get awkward, and rolls away from Stiles, whose hand cards through his hair once more before he climbs off the bed. 

Scott ties the condom off and makes his way to the en suite bathroom to toss it in the trash and get a wet cloth to clean them both up. He finds Stiles still lying in the same position, eyelids heavy, when he steps into the room again and it’s so familiar even though everything feels different somehow. He feels like something fundamental has changed between them and swallows hard against the rising fear in his chest. He wants to wipe Stiles’ down and then crawl into bed behind him, pull him into his chest and fall asleep like that. He is so, so screwed.

“You just gonna stand there?” Stiles asks.

“Sorry, man,” Scott says, aiming for casual and doing pretty well, thank you very much. “Zoned out for a minute.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed and drops the cloth on Stiles’ chest. “Well, that was pretty spectacular sex,” Stiles concedes, wiping the cloth over his belly and then tossing it on the nightstand.

Scott feels awkward, sitting on the bed with his hands in his lap, fiddling with a hangnail on the side of his thumb. He doesn’t know what to do with any of his limbs now that they’re not occupied with Stiles, who’s propped up on his elbows and still completely, utterly naked. Scott at least pulled his boxers back on.

“So are you, uh…” Stiles hesitates, flicks his eyes over to Scott before tugging part of the sheet up over his waist. “You getting in?” he asks in a rush, head twitching to indicate the empty space next to him.

Then it’s Scott’s turn to hesitate. Because he wants to, oh does he want to, and he’s pretty sure Stiles wants him to, but all of this seems so fragile, like something he hasn’t even identified is about to shatter and it will somehow be his fault. In the end though, Scott can’t resist.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” And he crawls over to the other side of the bed and shimmies under the covers. He hesitates for another moment, lying on his back and casting sidelong glances at Stiles, now curled on his side, before turning and shifting close enough to Stiles that it qualifies as spooning. Stiles leans back a bit in response, pressing them even closer.

“G’night,” he mumbles.

“Night,” Scott replies.

He waits until Stiles’ breathing deepens with sleep to press a kiss to the nape of his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles wakes slowly the next morning, the sun glowing bright through his eyelids, and he blinks into the stream of light coming through the window. Scott’s not in the bed, which isn’t surprising, but is disappointing. There is an indent in the pillow where Scott’s head must have been, but the sheets are cool, so he’s obviously been up for a while. He probably just went for a run, but Stiles finds himself wondering how much of that was strategic, planned so that Scott didn’t have to deal with the two of them waking up in the same bed at the same time. 

It’s all a bit much first thing in the morning. Stiles glances at the clock and finds that it’s seven o’clock—much earlier than he’d thought—which means Scott’s been awake even longer. Stiles forces himself up, scrubs a hand over his face and hair, and heads to the bathroom to brush is teeth. 

When he gets to the kitchen he finds Lydia (blessedly) brewing a pot of coffee. It smells amazing.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says, leaning against the counter. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine,” Stiles says, wary of her tone. “I’m not hungover, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Oh that’s not what I’m implying,” she says, crossing her arms and leveling him with a shrewd stare.

“Ooookay,” Stiles replies, and then is saved, however momentarily, by the beeping of the coffee machine.

Lydia turns and grabs two mugs out of the cupboard before filling them and passing one to Stiles.

“So…you and Scott,” Lydia says, more of a statement than a question, which immediately puts Stiles on the defensive.

“We’re just friends,” Stiles assures her, assures himself at the same time.

“Mmhmm,” Lydia says, stirring milk into her coffee.

“You don’t believe me?” Stiles asks. His stupid pulse is far too fast as he says it and he wants to kick himself, knock some sense into his traitorous internal organs, which seem to have minds of their own where Scott is concerned.

“I believe that you believe you,” Lydia says, taking a rather pointed sip from her mug. Her brows are raised over wide eyes in an expression of faux innocence. 

“What the hell does that mean?” Stiles demands, mostly as a stalling tactic because he knows what she means.

“I mean he looks at you a certain way and you look at him the same,” Lydia says. “And that look? Is not a ‘just friends’ kind of look. Trust me. Allison and I used to be ‘just friends.’” She cocks her head at him as though that proves her point. 

It kind of does.

Stiles would take a sip of coffee, but with the way his throat’s constricting, he’s worried he might choke on it. 

“Besides,” she adds. “We heard you two having sex last night.”

Stiles does choke then. On his own saliva. And that shouldn’t be allowed. It’s some of kind of terrible evolutionary design flaw that humans can choke on their own spit.

When the coughing subsides, Lydia supplies, “Don’t worry. I don’t think Melissa heard. Her room’s at the other end of the hall.”

Stiles’ entire body seizes in panic because somehow that possibility hadn’t occurred to him. 

“Honey,” Lydia says, voice softening as she takes pity on him. She steps forward and rubs her free hand over his arm. “You do know you don’t have to be stressed out about this, right?”

Stiles is about to ask her what she means exactly, is about to let spill all his feelings for Scott that have been building over the last couple months, to tell her exactly why he’s stressed and worried and feels sick in his stomach every time he thinks about it, and then beg her for help, but then Scott walks in and Stiles’ jaw clamps so tight it’s almost painful. Lydia presses her lips together, gives his shoulder a squeeze, and then takes a step back, turning towards Scott.

“How was the run?” she asks.

“Great,” Scott says, breathing heavily. He rubs his arm over his forehead to catch the sweat that’s dripping down his face. 

“Allison made breakfast,” Lydia says. “It’s out on the deck. I’ll bring the coffee.”

“Awesome,” Scott says and looks at Stiles. “You coming?”

Lydia nods toward the door. “Go ahead, I got this.”

She gives Stiles an encouraging nod when Scott turns around and Stiles loosens his jaw enough to respond with a small smile.

Allison has an impressive spread set up with pancakes, yogurt, fruit salad, sausages, and cinnamon buns. The cinnamon buns are still warm.

“Did you make these?” Stiles asks, snagging one from the plate, and forgetting momentarily to be worried about all things Scott-related. 

“I may have,” Allison says.

“Yeah, she may have bought them at the bakery in town,” Scott corrects.

Stiles doesn’t care if she found them at the side of the road, they’re divine. The gooey cinnamon sugar filling is so thick it’s dripping all over Stiles’ fingers, and the icing isn’t too sweet. Stiles wants to eat all of them.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says through a mouthful.

“Hmm,” Lydia says, sitting down across from Stiles. “Attractive.”

Stiles grins at her and she rolls her eyes. Allison just laughs and then leans over to kiss her. 

Scott smiles at them and then turns to Stiles. Something in face changes subtly, softens maybe, and Stiles finds swallowing his mouthful of pastry more difficult than he should. 

“You’ve got a little,” Scott murmurs, and then reaches his hand up to fucking wipe at some stray icing at the side of Stiles’ mouth.

He can only imagine what his own face looks like right now—probably some combination of stunned and terrified if he were to hazard a guess. His heart is racing so fast he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that everyone at the table can hear it. Scott just continues to smile at him, and it’s too much, so Stiles looks away. He can still feel the pad of Scott’s thumb on his lip, like an itch, and he resists reaching up to wipe at it with his own thumb. Instead, he shoves another piece of cinnamon bun in his mouth.

“So I was thinking we could go for a hike in Runyon Canyon today,” Scott says, like the entire planet hasn’t just shifted beneath them.

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, still staring determinedly at his plate. 

Lydia’s staring at him—he can feel it—and he doesn’t trust himself to look at her without either giving himself away or breaking into nervous hysterical laughter. 

“You gonna come?” Scott asks.

“I think Allison and I will hit up the farmer’s market,” Lydia says. “See what we can find for dinner.”

Scott nods. At least, Stiles is pretty sure he nods. He can see movement in his peripheral vision. 

“You okay, man?” Scott asks.

Stiles jerks his head up to see all of them staring at him, Lydia with her lips pressed together, Allison with furrowed brow, and Scott with the most sincere look of concern that Stiles feels a bit guilty for being the one that put it there.

“Yeah, man,” he says. “Sorry. Just tired I guess. Jet lag.”

“We can stay here instead of going hiking if you want,” Scott suggests, still concerned.

“No no,” Stiles insists. “I want to go hiking. I just need a shower to wake me up.”

Scott doesn’t look convinced.

“Seriously, bro,” Stiles says, and then goes for a change of subject. “You tried these cinnamon buns?”

“Yes,” Scott says, smiling again.

“Here,” Stiles says, ripping off a piece. “Have some anyway.” He holds the piece right to Scott’s mouth so he has no choice but the take it right from Stiles’ fingers. If he’s going to go for it, he might as well go for it. 

“Mmm,” Scott says. “They are good, aren’t they?”

And suddenly things feel normal again. Even though they’re apparently at the point of feeding each other, it feels okay. Comfortable. Stiles chances a glance at Lydia and she raises her eyebrows in something that might be approval. Stiles winks at her.

A couple hours later he and Scott are looking down at the expanse of LA spread out from their vantage point on the hiking trail. It’s impressive, to say the least, and almost rivals Stiles’ rooftop in New York. 

“Wow,” Stiles says. It’s beyond inadequate, but it’s all he can come up with right now.

“Not too bad, right?” Scott says, turning and giving Stiles a satisfied smile.

“Not bad at all,” Stiles says. Then, because Scott is expecting it, adds, “Still not New York though.”

Scott grins at him and shakes his head. Then he drops to the ground in one smooth motion, sprawling back on a patch of grass with his arms flung over his head. Stiles stares at him for a moment, distracted by the contented smile on his face, and then lays down next to him. 

“This is one of my favourite spots in LA,” Scott says. 

“I would’ve placed my bet on the beach,” Stiles replies.

Scott chuckles. “Yeah, that’s one of my favourites too.” He pauses. “I used come here a lot before my dad left. When he was fighting with my mom all the time. It was quiet and far enough away from the house. Plus, the view is great and it kinda put things into perspective I guess. Like it assured me everything was going to be okay, somehow. And it was. Does that make sense?”

Scott turns his head to look at Stiles, his forehead scrunched in concentration.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Stiles replies. He stares up the sky—blue, without a cloud to be seen—but he still finds himself thinking about the times he watched clouds with his mom, trying to find shapes in them. “I used to spend a lot of time in my treehouse, in our backyard, when my mom was sick. I think my dad was worried I was going to move in up there.”

Scott is quiet for a moment. “How’d she die?” he asks eventually, turning his head to look at Stiles.

Stiles swallows. “Something called frontotemporal dementia,” Stiles says. It’s been a while since he’s had to explain it to anyone, but it still feels practiced, partly from having explained it himself and partly from having listened to his dad explain it even more. “When it first showed up the doctors thought it was depression. And then they thought it might be schizophrenia, but, uh, then they did the MRI, and it wasn’t either of those things. She was okay, mostly, for about a year I guess, before it got really bad and she started having a lot more trouble talking. She wasn’t talking at all by the end.”

Stiles tilts his head slightly to look at Scott. He’s expecting pity because that’s usually what he gets—a look that makes Stiles feel pathetic and small—but that’s not what he sees on Scott’s face. There’s a little pity maybe, but mostly he just looks sympathetic, like he gets it somehow, though Stiles isn’t sure how he could. Then Scott’s grabbing his hand and squeezing as he links their fingers together and Stiles is so startled that he forgets about the lump that was forming in his throat.

“That’s fucking shitty,” Scott says, staring at the sky again.

Stiles lets out a broken laugh and wipes at his eyes. “Yeah,” he replies. “She was pretty awesome.” Stiles bites at his bottom lip and takes a steadying breath through his nose, concentrates on the warmth of Scott’s hand in his, sweaty palms pressed together. “She always made pancakes for breakfast on the first day of school,” Stiles says, and it’s something he hasn’t thought about in years. “In all these different shapes. Sometimes the alphabet or numbers, to be school-themed, but then other times just something really random, like a Mickey Mouse head or a cactus.” He smiles, remembering one ill-fated Mickey with an elongated ear. “We used watch clouds like this,” Stiles adds.

“My mom and I used to do that too,” Scott says. “Out on the beach.”

Stiles grins imagining a younger Scott with sand in his hair pointing at shapes in the sky while Melissa lies next to him. 

“You ever talk to your dad anymore?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice light so Scott knows he doesn’t have to answer it if he doesn’t want to. His hand twitches in Stiles’, but he doesn’t pull it away, and Stiles swipes his thumb gently over his finger.

“Not really,” Scott replies. “He didn’t really try to keep in touch after he left, and eventually I just stopped trying.” He’s silent for a moment. “I get a Christmas card sometimes. I dunno. I’m not even sure I’d want him to try harder than that at this point. I mean he left when I was thirteen. He’s been gone for more than half my life, so why bother now?”

Stiles isn’t really sure how to respond to that, so instead of saying anything he gives Scott’s hand a squeeze and goes back to looking at the sky. 

They’re silent for a bit until Scott says, “I’m really glad you came.”

Stiles smiles. “Me too.”

*

“No, angle it the other way,” Stiles insists.

Scott adjusts the firework in the sand, but it continues to point in a direction that Stiles is sure will fire towards the house.

“Do you need help?” Lydia asks, coming up behind them and eyeing their line of fireworks warily. “You need to angle that the other way, are you trying to kill us?”

Stiles gives Scott an I-told-you-so look and Scott glares at Lydia. “I’ve set off fireworks before, you know.”

“You were chased by one last year, if I recall,” Lydia reminds him. “And the year before you let that spinning one escape down the beach. And then there was the time you almost set the bench on fire with that burning school house one.”

Stiles looks from Lydia to Scott and back again. “Why did you continue to leave him in charge of fireworks?” 

Lydia levels Stiles with a truly impressive look of disdain—it’s possible Lydia invented disdain—while Scott looks momentarily triumphant, until his face falls when he seems to realize that Stiles’ comment wasn’t actually in his defence.

“Here,” Lydia says, taking pity on them. “Let me do this. You two go sit down. Make some s’mores.”

Stiles can’t tell if she’s talking down to them or if she’s genuinely concerned about their wellbeing. Either way he’s going to take it. 

Lydia works some kind of engineering and timing magic and hurries back to their spot on the beach just as the first one goes off. They go off in fairly quick succession after that, timed nearly perfectly, bursting in the sky in a rain of coloured sparks and showers of light. 

They’re all crammed on the wooden log that acts as a bench for the fire pit, Stiles in the middle between Scott and Allison. Melissa is on Scott’s other side, her arm looped through her son’s and Lydia is tucked in beside Allison. And it’s nice. 

Stiles used to think fireworks were overrated and kind of stupid, never understood why groups of people would take time out of their evening to stare at lights exploding in the sky. But now, with Scott’s leg pressed up against his and the pleasant buzz that his beer has afforded him, it seems like the best idea in the world. And it really is pretty. He looks over at Scott, who’s laughing at something Melissa said, and he’s seized by the urge to kiss him, to press his lips to the taught line of his neck or to turn his head and capture his mouth instead, surprise him with it. But Stiles has never been that good at following his impulses where romance is involved, not like that. He’ll buy stupid gifts and plan elaborate dates and cook gourmet meals, but he’s never been the one to make the first move when actual feelings are involved. 

So instead he takes a sip of his beer and watches the final popping explosions layer over one another in the night sky and presses himself ever so slightly closer to Scott.

Somehow he goes from there to being sprawled on the living room couch with Scott less than an hour later. They’ve managed to arrange themselves so they’re both lying down, which means Stiles is lying on top of Scott really, his head pillowed on Scott’s chest, rising and falling with Scott’s breathing. If he listens really closely he can hear his heart beating.

He might be a little drunk. But Scott’s hand is trailing over his back, fingertips lightly brushing in random motions relaxing all of Stiles’ muscles so he’s not too concerned about the drunk part. He only cares about how warm Scott is and how comfortable he is curled up like this.

“This is nice,” Stiles mumbles. “Let’s stay like this forever.” It takes him a moment to realize the implication of that statement, but is still enough on the happy side of drunk that he’s not kicking himself for letting his brain-to-mouth filter fail. It’s not a very good filter even when he’s sober so he’s lucky that’s all he says.

Scott just laughs. A low rumble in his chest that vibrates through Stiles. “I wouldn’t object,” he says.

It’s not the response Stiles is expecting. His heart stutters and his stomach flips and he wishes he knew what was going on with them right now. If he were smart he’d just ask. He’d pose the blunt question: What are we doing here? What does this mean? Do you want this to be something more than friends with benefits? And, okay, that’s more than one question, but Stiles is drunk and Scott has just suggested that he wouldn’t mind lying here with Stiles forever, so his thoughts are not quite coherent. 

And because he’s drunk and pressed against Scott and not quite coherent, he kisses him. He pulls himself up and catches Scott’s bottom lip between his own, softly at first. And Scott opens to him, his hand moves from its lazy wandering over Stiles’ back to the base of Stiles’ head, fingers weaving into his hair. Scott tastes like beer and marshmallows, which should probably be gross, but isn’t. His lips are a bit chapped, not quite smooth as they move against Stiles’, and Stiles runs his tongue over them, wondering if they’ve always been like that. He’s never really noticed before.

It’s the first time they’ve ever kissed like this, without any intent behind it beyond just kissing. Stiles thinks he could get used to it, to this wet lazy slide of mouths and tongues and their noses knocking gently together whenever one of them shifts. Scott pulls Stiles’ bottom lip between his teeth and Stiles smiles into it, retaliates by dragging his tongue over the roof of Scott’s mouth. Scott’s hand tightens in his hair and he makes a cut off little gasp. Stiles lifts his head just enough that he can look at Scott, who’s eyes are half-lidded with alcohol, and sleepiness, and languid arousal. He smiles up at Stiles and Stiles nudges their noses together, making him smile wider, his dimples like quotation marks around it. Stiles runs his thumb over one of them and Scott kisses him, quick and chaste and perfect.

Stiles swallows against the swelling in his chest and tries to remember to keep breathing—his lungs keep hitching unpleasantly and his blood is pounding in his ears, so that all he can hear is the muted whooshing of his own heartbeat. He settles himself down against Scott’s chest again, closes his eyes when Scott presses a kiss into his hair because it’s too much. He concentrates on the steady inhale and exhale of Scott’s chest and tries to follow it, hoping it will calm his racing heart. 

Stiles isn’t sure how he missed it before, but he’s pretty sure he’s fallen in love with his best friend. 

*

“Scott.”

Scott hears the whispered voice through a fog of slowly lifting sleep. 

“Scott, wake up,” the voice says, right in his ear. He’s pretty sure it’s Allison.

He groans and tries to shift, but is stopped by Stiles’ weight sprawled on top of him.

“Scotty,” she says. “The waves are amazing.”

Scott finally pries his eyes open and finds Allison’s eager face, upside down as she leans over him from behind. 

“Wakey wakey,” Allison whispers, grinning down at him.

Scott shakes his head, but smiles at her and gently extricates himself from Stiles. It takes some maneuvering, they’re pretty tangled together, but eventually Scott is able to crawl over Stiles’ sleeping form and pull himself to his feet. He stops for a moment to brush his hand through Stiles’ hair, messy with sleep, and then leans down to drop a kiss on Stiles’ temple. 

Allison raises her eyebrows at him when he looks at her.

“What?” Scott asks.

“I didn’t say anything,” Allison says, raising her hands.

Scott gives her a half-hearted glare and then follows her towards the beach. 

The waves are, in fact, amazing, and Scott is thrilled to be in the water again. He’d missed this more than anything. He and Danny had surfed together growing up, and in high school they’d met Allison, who’d spent a fair amount of her childhood in both California and Hawaii doing some surfing of her own. The three of them surfed together for years before Danny moved to San Francisco. 

Scott’s arms burn pleasantly as he paddles out, ducking under the waves and enjoying the way the cool water rushes past him. It’s a beautiful morning—clear sky with a breeze to temper the heat of the sun.

They get a few good waves in before taking time to drift in the water, bobbing with the surface of the ocean, reminding Scott how at home he feels on a surfboard.

“So how’s New York?” Allison asks.

“I already told you, it’s great,” Scott says. “The job is fantastic.”

“I know, I know, but how is it really?” Allison asks. “You know, the answer that isn’t the stock answer you give to everyone.”

Scott chuckles and trails his hand through the water. “I really am enjoying it,” he says. “It’s been an adjustment, but Stiles has been great. I don’t know how I’d do it without him, honestly.”

“Wow, I think that was a whole thirty seconds,” Allison says.

Scott frowns at her.

“You managed thirty seconds before you mentioned Stiles,” she explains with a delighted smile.

Scott rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling too.

“He’s my best friend, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing more than friends?” Allison asks.

Scott sighs and tilts his head back to the sky. “I don’t know. I don’t know what we are right now.”

Allison gives him a sympathetic look and if they weren’t floating on surfboards right now, he’d hug her. These past few weeks have been a confusing mess of weird jealousy and an ache in his chest that never seems to go away. He feels like the past couple of days should’ve helped to clear things up, like everything that’s happened with Stiles should be crystallizing into something he can point to, something tangible, but now everything just has an extra layer of terror. This could just be a weird vacation bubble and when they get back to New York Stiles might realize he doesn’t want to be with Scott, that he was just rebounding from Nick, and Scott’s not sure he can handle that if he admits any feelings out loud.

“Have you talked to him about it?” Allison asks.

“I—no,” Scott says. He lets out a groan of frustration. “How would I even begin that conversation? Plus, it’s a bad time. He’s still upset about everything with Nick.”

Allison laughs and Scott raises his eyebrows in surprise. “How is that funny?” he demands.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t quite believe Lydia when she said how oblivious you two are, but now I’m going to have to tell her she’s right. I’m going to owe her forty bucks for that.”

Scott just stares at her. He wonders if his annoyance is coming across. It might because Allison rolls her eyes and decides to explain whatever great secret she and Lydia seems to be privy to regarding his and Stiles’ relationship.

“First of all, any disappointment he feels over Nick, is just how anyone feels when being rejected, regardless of how shallow or deep your feeling for a person. It’s superficial. I swear. Not to say that being rejected causes only superficial feelings, but compared to how he feels about you? A puddle versus this wide ocean we’re sitting on.” She pauses. “You’re the ocean,” she clarifies, when Scott doesn’t respond.

Scott hopes her metaphors get better.

“Second of all, have you even seen the way he looks at you?” Allison asks. 

“But that doesn’t mean anything!” Scott insists. “We’re friends! We hang out all the time! We care about each other. How am I supposed to know if he wants more than that? How am I supposed to know he’s not just lonely and I’m convenient?”

“Scott, he is in love with you!” Allison shouts.

Scott can’t explain why his stomach plummets and clenches in panic at that statement. He swallows hard. That should be a good thing. That should be the answer he was hoping for, not the one that makes his insides turn to lead. His first reaction should not be to pull away from all this so fast that he gives himself whiplash, but that’s what his first reaction is. 

“Scott?” Allison asks tentatively.

“Hm?” Scott says, turning to look at her even as he’s distracted by the panic currently seizing his brain.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. He wonders if it sounds as unconvincing to Allison as it does to him. “I’m fine.”

He glances behind him and is relieved to see an incoming swell.

“I’m going to catch this wave,” he says, and starts paddling before Allison has a chance to respond.

When he comes up on shore he pauses at the door long enough to watch Allison ride her own wave and make it back to shore before ducking inside. 

*

“So what’s going on with you and Stiles?”

Stiles has just stepped in from a walk on the beach and he freezes when he hears Lydia ask the question. Part of him wants to walk in and interrupt so he doesn’t have to hear the answer, but the other part of him is curious. The other part of him needs to know how Scott will reply.

“Does everyone have to be on my back about this?” Scott demands. He sounds irritated and tired.

“We do when you can’t figure shit out on your own,” Lydia replies sharply.

“Just lay off, okay Lydia?” Scott says. “I can handle my own life and my own best friend.”

Nausea builds in Stiles’ stomach.

“Friend?” Lydia asks.

“Yes!” Scott says, his voice rising. “Why can’t we just be friends?”

Stiles’ stomach twists and he takes an instinctual step back. It has him bumping into the wall and he lets his head fall back against it. His heart is pounding like it does when he has the flu. Scott sounds genuinely angry. He’s never heard him that angry before and it’s making Stiles’ head reel. He can hear Lydia talking still, but can’t make out what she’s saying. Stiles swallows against the dryness in his throat and when he rubs a hand over his face, he finds that it’s clammy, as though this whole encounter has actually made him feverish. It’s pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Scott mutter eventually. “I just…can we not talk about this?”

“Fine,” Lydia says, her voice only a little clipped. 

“Thank you,” Scott says, and Stiles hates the relief he can hear in his voice.

He swallows again, this time because there’s a lump forming in his throat, and pushes himself away from the wall. When he reaches his bedroom, he grabs his suitcase and starts throwing his things into it, pausing only to look up flights on his phone and think about the excuse he’s going to fabricate to get himself out of here. It might be a cowardly option, but Stiles can’t be here after that. It’s too much. Once he’s back in New York, after he’s had a few days to lick his wounds, he’ll be able to see Scott again, but right now he’s too hurt. And angry. Not so much at Scott, but at himself for ever letting things go this far in the first place.

*

Scott hasn’t seen Stiles all day. He realizes this as he’s setting the table for dinner and immediately feels bad for not noticing sooner. It’s not Stiles’ fault that Scott is panicking over his own feelings. It’s not even Stiles’ fault that anything happened between them this weekend because Scott definitely initiated that. He feels like a complete asshole and he knows he needs to talk to Stiles about this, preferably soon. Preferably tonight if Scott doesn’t chicken out. 

But then Stiles enters the dining room with his suitcase in tow.

“Going somewhere?” Scott asks cautiously.

“I’ve got a work thing,” Stiles says, gesturing vaguely and not quite meeting his eyes. “Gotta be in New York tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Allison says, coming in from the kitchen with the salad. “It’s a holiday.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says. “It’s shitty, but it happens sometimes with this job.

“What’s shitty?” Lydia asks.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Melissa adds. “You haven’t even eaten yet.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “I wish I could stay, but my flight leaves in a couple hours. I need to get to the airport.”

“You want me to pack some up for the road?” Melissa asks.

Stiles looks simultaneously grateful and sad, and Scott finds himself wanting to wrap his arms around him. Stiles shakes his head. “No, thank you, though.”

“You can’t wait until tomorrow?” Scott asks. He can’t help feeling like this is somehow his fault and that whatever is happening with them is starting to spin wildly out of control.

“Can’t,” Stiles says. 

Scott hesitates. “Is everything okay, man?” 

“Yeah, buddy,” Stiles says, falsely bright and laced with sarcasm so biting Scott almost flinches. “Everything’s great. I just gotta catch a flight.”

“Well let me drive you,” Scott says, a little too desperately.

“Yeah, Scott can drive you,” Allison says, trying to help him salvage the situation. 

Stiles smiles, and it doesn’t look anything like the smile Scott has grown so accustomed to. He’s about to say something else, but then the cab honks outside, and Stiles says, “Cab’s here,” before booking it out the front door, leaving Scott standing at the table wondering how the fuck things went south so quickly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I finally finished it! Thanks for everyone who's stuck around. I know it's been a long wait between this chapter and the one before, so sorry about that. July ate all my spare time. Hope you enjoy this! Also, I'm always willing to take prompts for tumblr fic if you want more of Scott and Stiles in this 'verse, so come say hi! I'm oftirnanog over there as well.

Stiles gets in early Monday morning, leaves his suitcase by the door, and crawls into bed. He stays there until five in the afternoon when he can no longer ignore the grumbling in his stomach, at which point he eats an entire box of saltine crackers and a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream because he is, in fact, a cliché. 

It results in a terrific stomachache, which still hasn’t abated when he wakes on Tuesday morning for work. Stiles isn’t sure the ice cream is entirely to blame. 

When he gets home from work, he deletes all Scott’s messages from his phone and then sinks into his couch to watch _Romancing the Stone_. On Wednesday morning he wakes in the same spot and does the whole thing over again, this time with the _The Jewel of the Nile_. On Thursday he drinks a bottle of wine and watches _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ and on Friday he opts for not watching anything at all and crawling straight into bed. 

He doesn’t talk to Scott once, though there’s a horrible moment on Wednesday when Scott tries to get him to open the door. Stiles sits in complete silence, putting the movie on mute as though Scott hadn’t already heard it and doesn’t turn the volume back on until Scott’s been gone for at least twenty minutes. The Jewel of the Nile is not nearly sufficient to distract Stiles from hating himself for it. 

On Saturday Stiles intends to stay in bed and wallow. It’s easier than thinking about the fact that he’s going to have to talk to Scott eventually, that his intention had never been to ignore Scott at all, but to grit his teeth and push through it. Because whatever is going on between them, he’s still Scott’s friend, still wants to be Scott’s friend, and even though it’s only been five days since he’s seen him, Stiles misses him. It’s all too much to think about at the moment and as pathetic as Stiles knows it is, avoidance is the easier option right now and easier is all Stiles wants considering the terrible ache in his chest.

Instead, on Saturday, Stiles’ dad barges into his apartment and throws open his bedroom curtains, letting the sun pour in and ruin the illusion of eternal night he was trying so hard to maintain. 

“Go away,” Stiles mutters, voice muffled by the pillow his face is mashed into and the covers he has thrown over his head.

“You haven’t answered any of my phone calls this week,” his dad says. “I was worried. Should I still be worried?”

Stiles grunts in response. He should probably apologize for inadvertently deleting his dad’s messages because he doesn’t want to admit that he thought all the messages were from Scott and thus deleted them en masse without listening to a single one. Partly because he doesn’t want to admit that he actually thought they were all from Scott, but mostly because he doesn’t want to explain why he’s deleting messages from Scott. Both reasons are equally pathetic, so he doesn’t voice either of them.

“Stiles?” his dad says. Stiles feels the mattress shift with the weight of his dad sitting down on the bed.

Stiles sighs and rolls over, letting the covers pull back from his face so he can look at his dad. He squints a bit in the brightness of the room.

“What happened?” his dad asks. His forehead is wrinkled with concern and Stiles feels a surge of affection for him that decides to manifest as a lump in his throat.

Stiles looks away and shrugs, not trusting his voice, and blinks against the tears burning at the backs of his eyes. 

When his dad continues to look at him, Stiles swallows and manages, “He didn’t want me like that I guess.” His voice only breaks a little at the end.

His dad nods and puts a reassuring hand on Stiles’ leg. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Stiles tries to smile at him, but finds himself rubbing a hand over his eyes instead and drawing a shaky breath. He hasn’t called Stiles ‘kid’ in years.

“What do you say I take you out for a big brunch? We can have pancakes and sausages and bacon,” he suggests.

Stiles laughs a bit and says, “You just want an excuse to eat shitty food.” It doesn’t come out quite as light as Stiles wanted, but it makes his dad smile anyway.

And that’s how Stiles finds himself with a stack of pancakes six inches tall and another plate with bacon and sausages between himself and his dad on Saturday morning. His dad has piled so much meat on his plate that Stiles can’t help the habitual worry niggling at the back of his mind about his dad giving himself a heart attack one of these days. He thinks his dad might be doing it on purpose to distract him. And it’s almost working so Stiles lets it slide, though he does shake his head when he proceeds to douse his plate in maple syrup too.

“So, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this,” his dad says, once he’s polished off his fourth breakfast sausage. “But do you maybe want to tell me what happened? Because you have a tendency to avoid problems and occasionally make mountains out of mole hills, so I just want to check.” He delivers this information with his patented drawn eyebrows expression that is half-pained and half-apologetic and so familiar that Stiles would laugh were it not for the gut-wrenching sensation he feels every time he so much as thinks of Scott.

Stiles sighs and pushes a piece of pancake through the syrup on his plate, but doesn’t eat it. He’s not really that hungry.

“I don’t even know really,” Stiles says. He’s thought about what happened last weekend for the past five days, almost non-stop, running things over in his head and trying to figure out where he went wrong, but he just doesn’t know. 

“Well, what makes you think he doesn’t want to be more than friends?” his dad asks.

“He said as much,” Stiles says. “He yelled it practically. To Lydia. Why can’t we just be friends? He sounded pissed.”

“Okay, but if someone other than Scott kept pestering you about whether your relationship was something more, how would you react?”

Stiles stares at him. He knows he’s insisted that he and Scott were nothing more than friends, on a number of occasions, and emphatically, but that was before everything that happened over the weekend. He’d thought things were changing. He’d thought Scott wanted more.

“I guess I just thought that things were different now,” Stiles says. “And I was clearly wrong. Which is my own fault. And you were right that this was a bad idea.”

“I only said it was a bad idea because I thought it was your way of avoiding a real relationship,” his dad says. “If you avoid Scott now, I’m going to think that’s a bad idea. Because Scott could be it. And you love him. Don’t just throw that away because you’re scared.”

“How the hell am I supposed to tell him that?” Stiles demands.

His dad shrugs and takes another piece of bacon. “You just do,” he says, his mouth quirking into a crooked smile. “If he cares about you at all, which I know he does, he’ll still at least want to remain friends. That’s better than nothing, right?”

“Still hurts,” Stiles says.

“That’s how you know it’s worth something,” his dad says. The smile Stiles gets this time is a little sad and he knows his dad’s thinking of his mom right now. Stiles gives him a small smile in return.

A moment later his dad asks, “You gonna eat that bacon?” pointing at the last few pieces on the plate between them.

“Oh my god, just eat it,” Stiles replies and pushes the plate forward, chuckling at the delighted look on his dad’s face. “Don’t think this is going to become a regular thing.”

“Why do you think I’m taking advantage of this right now?” his dad replies.

*

The following Wednesday evening Scott heads to the airport to meet Allison, who’s staying with Scott for a few days while she’s in town for a conference. When she hugs him she hangs on to him longer than she normally would and even though it makes his heart clench in his chest, Scott is grateful.

“So you still haven’t talked to him?” Allison asks once they’re settled into a cab.

“I sat in his hallway for two hours waiting for him to come out, and he still wouldn’t talk to me,” Scott admits, even though he’d been intending to keep that information between himself and Stiles’ hallway (and, oddly, the neighbour’s cat that always wanders the fifth floor and for some reason decided to keep Scott company that night). The worst part was hearing the television go off when he knocked so Scott knew he was home, the way he ignored Scott when he tried to talk to him through the door, and then the way he hadn’t turned the TV back on for twenty minutes, leaving Scott to imagine him sitting there, alone and angry with him.

He knows he fucked up, knows that Stiles must have felt jilted after Scott ignored him all day in LA, and that after everything that had happened over the rest of the weekend decided to pull away accordingly. He just doesn’t know how to fix it if Stiles won’t talk to him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Allison says, and at first Scott thinks she’s just offering condolences, but then he notices how guilty she looks.

“What are you sorry for?” Scott asks.

“Lydia thinks I spooked you with the whole telling you Stiles is in love with you thing,” she says, hands whirling around her face. “I just thought you knew! And maybe needed some reassurance.” She gives him an apologetic look.

“You were right!” Scott assures her. “I just panicked!”

“Clearly!” Allison says. Then her face softens as she offers him a sympathetic smile. “I’m just sorry.” She gives his forearm a squeeze.

“It should’ve been reassuring,” Scott sighs, letting his head fall back against the seat. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t want to mess things up or hurt him or something. And I freaked out and ended up doing both of those things anyway.”

“I wish I knew how to help,” Allison replies and rests her head on Scott’s shoulder as she twines their fingers together. 

“This helps,” he says.

She turns her head to kiss his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out,” she assures him. “Just don’t give up on him. He’s worth the effort.”

“I know,” Scott says, and tries not to think about how that’s exactly why he’s so terrified.

Two days later Scott is no closer to figuring out how he can get Stiles to talk to him, but he has eaten at a couple of his favourite restaurants with Allison and taken her on a tour of the best parts of New York. She’s even made him laugh a few times. 

They’re walking through Central Park and Allison is shoving the last bit of her hotdog into her mouth in the most unattractive manner and Scott bursts out laughing.

“What?” she demands, but she says it through the mouthful of hotdog, and little bits spray onto the grass in front of her.

“I miss you,” Scott says, smiling and shaking his head at her.

Allison swallows and frowns at him. “You’ve seen me so much in the past two weeks.”

“I know,” Scott says. “And I miss seeing you this much.”

“I miss you too,” she says, hip checking him lightly. 

Then she tosses her napkin in a garbage can and turns to face him, stopping him in his path. “Have you tried talking to Stiles today?” she demands. She’s been asking him everyday, always with this weird mix of encouragement and pressure, like she wants to be nice about it, but also wants to convey that she thinks he’s not trying hard enough.

“Every time I call it goes straight to voicemail,” Scott says. He’d tried tracking Stiles down at work the day before, but he hadn’t been there. 

“His phone’s probably off,” Allison says.

“Stiles never turns his phone off,” Scott replies.

Allison raises her eyebrows a bit. “He might if he’s trying to avoid you.”

Scott shakes his head. “No, he can’t. He needs it for work. And he takes his job very seriously.”

“Is it possible he blocked your number?” Allison asks.

Scott’s stomach drops at the suggestion. He doesn’t think Stiles would go that far. This whole time he’s been convincing himself that Stiles just needs some time and will come around eventually, but now he’s faced with the prospect that Stiles may just never want to see him again and the hotdog he ate is threatening to come back up.

Then it hits him.

“I know where he is,” Scott says. “I know where he is!” he repeats, grabbing Allison’s shoulders.

“So go!” Allison tells him, shoving at his chest. “Get out of here, I’ll be fine on my own.”

Scott swallows. His stomach is still churning unpleasantly, now with a combination of jittery hope and nerves, but it’s better than thinking he’ll never get to talk to Stiles again.

“Go!” Allison shouts, giving him another push, more forceful this time, because he’s still standing there.

“Right,” Scott says. Then he turns and starts running out of the park.

The trick, really, is whether Scott will even be able to find the building again. That first night with Stiles was such a whirlwind of bars and city lights and big decisions and being distracted by the way Stiles’ pants had clung to his ass, that Scott hadn’t paid much attention to exactly where Stiles had taken him. He knows the general area of where he has to be, and once he’s there it shouldn’t be too hard to trace his footsteps, but it isn’t until he’s out of the park, after he nearly gets himself killed running across the street, that he thinks to hop in a cab.

That had really been the moment that Scott had decided to take the job, while he was lying next to Stiles on that rooftop, staring at stars he thought he’d never get to see in New York City. He’d let Stiles think it was Times Square that did it, that finally sealed the deal on Scott’s decision to move to Now York, but it was that moment of stillness at the top of one of the greatest cities in the world with Stiles telling him that he’d never taken anyone else up there before that actually did it. He might’ve fallen a little in love with Stiles right then and there and just not realized it until now. How had it taken him so long to realize it?

Scott doesn’t even wait for change when the cab drops him at the intersection. He just jumps out and ducks down an alley that he thinks is vaguely familiar. Sure enough there’s a partly open garage door he can duck through and he’s sure he’s in the right place now. 

He takes the stairs two at a time, barely even registering the burn in his lungs. He pauses at the top rather than charging through the door, takes a moment to even out his breathing, or at least try, and get his heart rate back down to a reasonable level. 

Then he steps out into onto the roof and finds that he’s the only one up there.

He walks around it several times, even though he can see the entire span of the roof from the door, and then leans against the ledge in defeat, bracing his forearms against the hot concrete. A muted siren wail floats up from the street as Scott stares out at the city.

“Hey you can’t be up here,” a voice behind him says, causing him to jump away from the ledge.

A security guard stares at him, a look of mild concern on his face.

“Sorry,” Scott says. 

“You okay, man?” the guard asks, tentative, like he doesn’t want to spook him, and that’s when Scott realizes that the guard is worried he’s going to jump.

“Yeah,” Scott says, walking toward the door to put the guard’s mind at ease. “Yeah, I was just leaving.”

Scott decides to walk home even though it takes him close to an hour. He feels numb. Until he’d found the roof empty, Scott hadn’t realized how much this had felt like a last chance. He can’t exactly wait on the rooftop for Stiles to show up again. Who knows how long he’d be up there? And he thinks two hours in Stiles’ hallway is probably the limit before one of his neighbours calls security on the creepy guy sitting outside one of the resident’s units. 

Maybe Allison will have returned from the park and he can spend the rest of the day watching a movie with his head in her lap like he had the night she arrived. It had been helpful having her reassuring fingers rubbing at his scalp while she let him wallow. He’s pretty sure she’d let him wallow again after this. 

Scott steps out of the elevator and turns to make his way down the hall when he’s stopped short by a figure sitting on the floor, elbows resting on upturned knees, fingers tugging frenetically at his hair.

“Stiles?” Scott says. 

Stiles’ head snaps up and he scrambles to his feet. His hair is sticking at odd angles from running his fingers through it. He stares at Scott for a moment, then glances at the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing his toe against the floor.

Scott feels weightless as he walks towards him, like he might float away at any moment—or pass out, which is a far more likely possibility. He’s so relieved to see him that he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. He settles on gaping at him.

“Uh, I,” Stiles clears his throat, and then looks up again, looking at a spot somewhere over Scott’s shoulder. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Scott says. He frowns. “For what?”

“For freaking out and bailing on the weekend,” Stiles says, finally turning to look at Scott properly. “And then for ignoring you for almost two weeks.”

“I’ve been trying to apologize to you!” Scott tells him. “I freaked out first and I basically ignored you the last day you were in LA. I thought you were mad at me.”

“Well, I was a little,” Stiles admits. “I, uh, I overheard what you said to Lydia about us just being friends and I kind of, I dunno, felt used after everything over the weekend, but that was my own fault for getting into this too deep, I shouldn’t have let any of that happen because we agreed on the just friends thing, and I meant it at the time and it shouldn’t be on you that I, you know…” He makes a vague swirling gesture with his hand. “Fell in love with you or whatever. I just don’t want it to ruin our friendship because that’s more important. I just want you in my life, Scott.”

Scott barely knows what to do with that information. The initial plunge of lead in his stomach at finding out that Stiles heard that conversation with Lydia is eclipsed by the ‘fell in love with you’ part. He kind of missed the rest of what Stiles said after that, still stuck on how much he really needed to hear it from Stiles even though he already knew. There’s an expanding joy in his chest that feels like it’s about to burst out of his skin, bubbling and giddy.

“So, are we…are we cool?” Stiles asks, when the silence stretches too long.

Scott grins at him so wide he feels like his face is going to split open. He takes a step forward, places his hands on either side of Stiles’ face, and kisses him, just a gentle press of lips that requires more restraint than Scott knew he had. It has Stiles tensing anyway. 

“You didn’t let me tell you why _I_ freaked out,” Scott says, resting his forehead against Stiles, so close that their noses are still touching.

Stiles eyes widen. His hands are trembling slightly where they’ve come to rest on Scott’s hips. Scott can hear his throat click as he swallows.

“It’s because I’m in love with you too,” Scott tells him. 

Stiles hands clench at Scott’s hips, fingers bruising in their grip like Stiles is afraid Scott might vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

“You better mean that,” Stiles says, voice quiet and a little broken. His expression is caught between hopeful and terrified and Scott can understand that—having thought he lost Stiles once already, he’s not sure he could do it again, not after this.

“I mean it,” Scott says and catches Stiles lips with own.

This time Stiles responds by pulling himself closer, bucking his hips forward and dragging Scott towards him at the same time, his fingers still gripping Scott’s hips like a lifeline or an anchor. He opens for Scott, mashing their tongues together in a kiss that turns a bit sloppy and too wet, but is still the best kiss Scott’s ever had in his life even if it isn’t the most elegant. Scott wraps his arms around Stiles, hands flat on his back trying to pull him closer even though the entire length of his body is already flush against him. Their knees knock together and Scott tries to adjust, to slot one of his legs between Stiles’, but their feet get tangled and they stumble, sending Stiles back against the wall where he smacks his head on the doorframe with a solid thump. Stiles winces and Scott brings a hand up to cradle the back of his head, swiping his thumb gently over the spot where his head hit. 

“You okay?” Scott asks, chuckling at bit at their ridiculous desperation.

Stiles nods, smiling. “I’m great,” he says. “Maybe we should go inside though. I think this is about to become too inappropriate for your hallway.”

He grinds against Scott to make a point, pressing the hard line of his dick into Scott’s hip. Despite the stumbling they managed to fit themselves together and Scott can’t help the way his hips twitch forward in response, shifting to press his own hard length against Stiles. 

“I think you’re right,” Scott murmurs, dragging his mouth over Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles turns and catches Scott’s lips again, slides his hands down to his ass and grinds their hips together again. Scott groans into his mouth and tugs at Stiles’ hair. Stiles’ hands scrabble at the back of his shirt and if they keep up like this, Scott is going to lose it in his pants in the middle of his hallway.

“Okay,” Scott breathes, extracting himself and taking a forced step backwards.

Stiles keeps a couple fingers hooked in Scott’s belt loops to prevent him going too far.

“Inside,” Scott insists. He digs his keys out of his pocket and Stiles moves to let him unlock the door, though he doesn’t stop touching him. He steps up close behind Scott and slips one hand under his shirt and over his stomach, trailing his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. It’s extraordinarily distracting.

They tumble into the apartment and manage to kick off their shoes without toppling over. Stiles lifts Scott’s shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere in the hall before removing his own. As soon as it’s out of the way Scott goes for Stiles’ neck, sucking a bruising mark into the skin, which has the added bonus of eliciting a choked-off noise from Stiles. Scott backs him into the kitchen counter hard enough that he’ll probably have a bruise from that as well. He reaches down to palm Stiles’ dick through his jeans and then hears, “Oh my god I’m sorry!”

Stiles startles so badly he jumps and his moan turns into a strangled gargle. Scott looks up and sees Allison standing by the entrance of the kitchen, peaking through the fingers of the hand she has thrown up to shield her eyes. Scott moves his hand from Stiles’ crotch and brings his arm to loop around Stiles’ waist, tugging him in protectively because if the blush rising in his chest and neck is any indication, he’s mortified right now.

“Oh you’re still wearing pants,” Allison says, dropping her hand. “I’m going to go!”

“You don’t have to—” 

“No, it’s fine,” Allison insists. “I was going to pick up a gift for Lydia at Saks anyway. I’ll just do that now. And I’ll grab something to eat. Or whatever. Just, I’ll not be here.”

Allison grabs her purse off the counter and says, “Hi Stiles,” on her way past.

Stiles’ reply is muffled by Scott’s shoulder since he currently has his face buried there. Scott runs a reassuring hand over his back and kisses the side of his head. He can’t help smiling into it and the swooping rush of affection he has for Stiles.

“So Allison’s in town,” Stiles says, lifting his head and looking at Scott. His face is bright red.

“Yeah, she’s here for a conference,” Scott replies.

Stiles nods. Scott can feel his fingers twitching at his hips, toying with his belt loops and tickling at his skin as they move. He shivers. Scott finds himself suddenly and inexplicably nervous. He runs his hands up Stiles’ sides and swallows.

“So, we should move this to the bedroom probably,” he says.

Stiles nods again and then smiles, staring at Scott like he can’t quite believe he’s real. Scott takes a step back and takes hold of Stiles’ hand, twining their fingers together. He looks surprised for a moment before squeezing back and then tugging Scott down the hall. It’s unbearably sweet, really, the way Stiles brings their joined hands up and kisses the back of Scott’s hand, and he’s so giddy with it that he nearly skips into the bedroom. When they get there he tackles Stiles to the bed, straddling his hips and rocking into him, grinning so wide that their teeth knock together when he leans down to kiss him.

Stiles licks his lips and rubs his hands over Scott’s thighs. “How do you want to do this?” he asks. It’s obvious he’s nervous too, so Scott doesn’t feel too weird about it even though they’ve had sex more times than he can keep track of. But this is the first time he won’t have to hold anything back, won’t have to swallow words that would have revealed too much before today, so maybe the nerves make sense.

Scott bites at his bottom lip. “I was thinking you could fuck me this time.” He pauses, takes in Stiles’ wide-eyed expression. “If you want to, that is,” he adds quickly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah I want to.” He pulls himself into a sitting position, effectively drawing them closer together and lining up their dicks through their pants (why are they still wearing pants?) and Scott brings his hands up to the back of Stiles’ neck, thrusts down once, twice, building a rhythm, and he could get off just like this, with his fingers in Stiles’ hair, and Stiles’ nose against his throat, make a mess of his pants because he’s so turned on right now he feels like his skin could vibrate right off his bones.

Stiles groans and trails sticky, open-mouth kisses over Scott’s neck and collarbone, the hollow of his throat. He anchors his hands on Scott’s waist, trying to leverage himself to meet Scott’s thrusts.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “If we don’t stop this we’re not going to get to the fucking part.” 

“Okay,” Scott says, “okay.” He wants to kiss Stiles again, but he knows if he does he’ll never move. Instead he runs a hand over the back of Stiles’ head before climbing off him and reaching for the lube and condoms in his bedside drawer.

He struggles a little because he’s trying to get his pants off at the same time, but when he finally does Stiles reaches for him, grabs him around the waist with both arms and tugs him back onto the bed. They bounce a little on the mattress and Scott laughs against Stiles’ mouth. Stiles grins, then rolls them so Scott is on his back with Stiles hovering over him. Scott can see all the little flecks of gold in Stiles’ eyes and he reaches up to run his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip, damp from where he’s run his tongue over it. Stiles closes his lips around it and sucks and Scott feels it like a jolt through his entire body.

“You sure about this?” Stiles asks once he lets Scott’s thumb go. “I thought you didn’t like to bottom.”

“It’s not that,” Scott explains. “I just only like it with people I really care about.” And the fluttering nervousness is back when he remembers that the last time he did this was with Danny. It’s been a while.

“Oh,” Stiles says, ducking his head. When he looks back at Scott he’s wearing his shit-eating grin. “Well in that case, I’m going to make this so good you forget your own name.”

“Getting cocky now, huh?” Scott says.

Stiles waggles his eyebrows and reaches beside Scott for the lube. He squirts some onto his fingers and rubs them together to warm it up a bit. Scott’s stomach flips just from that, a combination of nerves and anticipation, and he bends one knee, letting his legs fall open a bit more to give Stiles easier access. It feels more intimate than anything Scott’s ever done when Stiles drags a finger over his hole. He feels splayed open, like someone’s cracked his ribs and exposed his heart still beating in his chest. It’s overwhelming and it’s perfect and despite the messy road that got them here, he’s not sure he’d change how things played out because it’s made him acutely aware of just how lucky he his to have his best friend pressed against him like this, opening him up slowly and carefully.

The first press of one finger is uncomfortable for a moment until it’s so good, until it has Scott bearing down, clutching at Stiles’ shoulders and saying, “More. Please, god, Stiles more.”

Stiles obliges and works in a second finger, scissoring his fingers once Scott adjusts to the stretch and then curling them to find his prostate. Scott’s entire body clenches as the sensation shocks through his limbs, starting at the base of his spine and radiating out through his toes and fingers. Stiles massages him, keeping him just on the edge of too much/not enough, and then adds a third finger. It burns more this time, drags him back from the edge with the rough sting of it.

“How you doing?” Stiles asks, still pumping his fingers in and out. He sounds breathless. 

“Good. I’m good. Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Stiles says. He leans forward to kiss him, bumps their noses together and lets Scott bite at his bottom lip. 

Scott jerks his hips up trying to get more and eventually gets impatient. “I’m ready,” he insists. “C’mon Stiles, just…” 

“Yeah okay,” Stiles replies. “Yeah.”

He pulls his fingers out and Scott doesn’t quite succeed at biting back his whimper at the loss, but Stiles drops a kiss on his shoulder as he reaches for the condom. Then he sits back on his heels and rolls the condom on. Scott’s stomach flips, watching him, the strong cord of muscles in his arms and the way his abs jump. His hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead and Scott is suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that this is all his now. He’s the only one that’s gets to see Stiles like this anymore, flushed and trembling a bit with arousal, laid bare so that Scott could count all the moles on his body if he wanted. And Scott’s going to do that one day—explore every inch of Stiles’ pale, speckled skin until he has every inch of it memorized. 

Stiles pushes in slowly, shaking a little with the effort, and Scott breathes deeply, makes a conscious effort to relax to the intrusion. They end up kind of on their sides, with Scott’s leg draped over Stiles’ hip, tugging him closer, and Stiles’ face buried at the juncture of Stiles’ neck and shoulder. Scott can’t remember the last time he felt this full. He feels fit to burst with it, like his body can’t possibly contain that much. 

“Okay you can move, Stiles,” Scott says. He twitches his hips to drive the point home and Stiles groans.

“Yeah, I…” Stiles swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against Scott’s shoulder. “I know I said I was going to make you forget your own name, but I don’t think I’m going to last that long.”

And Scott realizes that Stiles is taking this slowly as much for his own sake as for Scott’s. It makes something hot rise in his stomach and Scott drives his hips down again.

“Scott,” Stiles mutters. “Jesus Christ, Scotty.” He turns his head and kisses Scott under the eye, just above his cheekbone, and then he starts to move. Pulls out and slams back into Scott.

Scott moans. “Stiles.”

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts. His voice is wrecked, rasping and breaking over the word. “Are you close?”

And Scott is close, but he can tell Stiles is closer, can feel the way Stiles is tensing against him, fingers grasping at Scott’s skin like they always do when he’s about to tip over the edge. He’s ducked his head against Scott’s shoulder again, his thrusts turning erratic, so Scott says, “Yeah. C’mon. Come for me Stiles.”

Stiles slams into him once more and then shudders against him, fingernails digging into Scott’s scalp where they’ve twined in his hair, tugging a bit. Stiles lays panting against him for a moment and then starts peppering kisses wherever he can reach—on Scott’s temple, his eyelid, his jaw, and his neck, and finally his lips. Scott gasps into it, pushing their tongues together and bucking against Stiles’ stomach. Stiles shifts enough that he slips out of Scott, leaving him empty and almost hollow after being so full, but then reaches around and slips a finger in, tugging Scott closer so he can rut against his hip, sweat and precome easing the way.

“C’mon Scotty,” Stiles says, whispering the encouragement in his ear. “You were so good for me. Opened up so good for me. I love you so fucking much.” And it’s that last bit that does it, sends Scott tumbling, his orgasm wracking through his body, streaking both their stomachs. Stiles rubs the pad of his finger over Scott’s hole when he pulls out, sending aftershocks through Scott’s body and only stops when Scott whimpers, the sensation falling just on the wrong side of too much.

Stiles kisses Scott’s forehead before climbing out of the bed to dispose of the condom and get a cloth to wipe them up. He runs it over Scott’s belly, tosses it on the bedside table, and then climbs back into the bed with Scott. Scott pulls Stiles in and kisses him, soft and sweet, all the desperation drained out of it to be replaced by something more languid. 

“I love you too,” Scott murmurs when they break apart and the smile Stiles give him is so full of adoration his chest aches with it.

Stiles kisses Scott at the corner of his mouth and then snuggles down against him, resting his head against Scott’s chest and curling one of his legs over him. He trails his fingers up and down the smattering of hair that trails down from his navel, tickling gently.

They lay there for a while—Scott’s not sure how long, it could be a few a minutes, it could be a few hours—and it’s even better than when they were wrapped up on the couch in LA because this time Scott can press his lips to Stiles’ hair as much as he wants, can rub his hand over Stiles’ arm and not worry about what it means. Because he knows what it means this time. And Scott can’t remember the last time he was this happy. A warm contentment has settled into his chest and limbs that he wouldn’t be able to put into words except to say that it feels like home.

“We should text Allison,” Scott says. “Tell her it’s safe to come back. We could make dinner. I think I have some chicken defrosting in the fridge. We could make chicken fajitas or a stir fry or something.”

“That sounds awesome,” Stiles replies. “I’m starving. And I’d like to see Allison before she heads out.”

So they drag themselves out of bed, and Stiles borrows one of Scott’s sweaters, which makes him absurdly pleased, and they text Allison, who picks up a bottle of wine on her way. They have the chicken fajitas ready by the time she arrives and she teases them about being like an old married couple as they move around each other in the kitchen with an ease that usually comes from years of experience, because as it turns out they’re used to being in each other’s space, have grown comfortable enough to be able to navigate around each other on instinct. 

When they finish eating Stiles and Allison chase him out of the kitchen and refuse to let him do the dishes, so he settles for flicking through channels and shouting out updates of the Mets game for Stiles. And when the dishes are done they crack another bottle of wine and stay up talking until Allison kicks them off the couch, which is her bed at the moment, because she wants to be at least reasonably rested for her trip home tomorrow. 

Neither Stiles nor Scott even talk about whether Stiles is going to spend the night. Stiles just strips down to his boxers and crawls under the covers with Scott, curling up with his back to Scott and tugging Scott’s arm around his waist. Scott falls asleep breathing in Stiles’ scent with the soft pulse of his heart thumping under the hand that’s resting on Stiles’ ribs. It’s the best night sleep Scott’s had in a long time.


End file.
